Arson & Old Lace (Blood Circles 6)
by zenfrodo
Summary: '70s show/AU, part of on-going series: San Francisco is going up in flames, held hostage by a desperate Gifted seeking revenge on a crazed recluse bent only on his own savage desires. In the midst of the terror, Nancy disappears...and if Frank & Joe don't find her, the city will burn with her.
1. Panic on Gull Island

_**A/N:** Yeah, I'm back! The characters of Frank  & Joe Hardy, their dad Fenton and Aunt Gertrude, Nancy Drew, and her father Carson all belong to Simon & Schuster. Those characters as portrayed here are from the 1970s TV show, "The Hardy Boys Nancy Drew Mysteries", created by Glen A. Larson and starring Parker Stevenson & Shaun Cassidy as Frank & Joe Hardy, and Pamela Sue Martin as Nancy Drew, twisted through my own AU. This tale takes on the episode "Arson & Old Lace", original teleplay by Michael Sloan & Christopher Crowe; the characters of Robert Coleman, Weldon Rathbone, & Harry Hammond are from that episode, though the re-interpretation is my own. This tale is part of my ongoing series (see my profile for the full list & the story order); it takes place about a month-and-half after "The San Francisco Vampire". And as far as I'm concerned, that Other Actor for Nancy doesn't exist._

 _Quick tour for those not familiar with the show: it sets River Heights in New York and Bayport in Massachusetts, Laura Hardy is dead, Aunt Gertrude lives with the Hardys to help raise the boys, Joe never dated Iola, and the '70s show started the whole Frank/Nancy-ship. Oh, and the supernatural is very, very real.  
_

* * *

 _San Francisco: June 1978_

"Frank! Phone!"

Not that he could respond — Frank Hardy was in deep trouble, surrounded and blocked by screaming, screeching people. Then — _there!_ Frank grabbed the soccer ball and held it out of reach.

"Hey!" Kris Mountainhawk yelled. "You're not supposed to use your hands!"

Frank couldn't answer. He was fending off three kids who kept trying to grab the ball. Finally Frank tossed it to Joshua, and the soccer game briefly devolved into keep-away as Joshua flung the ball to Angel. "Big brother prerogative," Frank called to Kris as he left the field.

"Is that in the rules?" Kris said to Joe.

Joe was grinning. "It is now."

It was a cook-out and pool party for the Wings' kids, the runaway shelter sponsored by Bay Area Center, and _someone_ had decided that an impromptu soccer game with shrieking kids and teens of various ages was a good idea. That someone was Frank's younger brother, Joe, who'd staked out a goalie position as a "cushy job" that didn't require much movement. Since Joe used a crutch, it'd been decided to make the goals smaller so he'd have less ground to cover.

Of course, with Frank playing center for the opposing team, he'd made Joe work for that "easy" position — until Joe retaliated with psychological warfare and drafted little Rita to help him. Between the giggling Hispanic five-year-old with a bad limp, her nine-year-old brother Emelio playing her scowling, over-protective sweeper, and Joe ramping up his pathetic act, Frank's adult teammates didn't stand a chance.

Even without the scars and the crutch, Joe didn't have to act much. He and Frank had the same golden-brown hair, but Joe was smaller and leaner, bohemian-casual to Frank's prep-school-jock, and Joe's hazel eyes fit right in with his "lost puppy" act, unlike Frank's piercing blue. Not that Frank minded: if Joe wanted girls who would mother him like a forlorn puppy, Joe was welcome to them.

"Hurry up, Frank," Mar Mountainhawk called from the deck; she was a calm, weathered woman with grey-streaked black hair and dried-apple face, wiry-tough despite her age. "It's long-distance."

"Dad," Joe groaned. "Figures." He grabbed up his crutch from behind the goalpost and started to follow Frank.

"No, Joe, not you," Mar said as the brothers came closer. "Just Frank. Someone named Nancy."

Frank sighed. Mar _would_ say that out loud.

" _Nancy?"_ Joe said.

"Hey, Josh," Frank called towards the field, "Joe's bragging we're too easy."

" _Hey!"_

"Oh, really?" Joshua mock-snarled as everyone burst into laughter and cat-calls. The commander of the Association's Blades, Joshua Thomas was a lean, muscled, Black man with rainbow-colored fimo beads in his short dreads and a penchant for bright colors; today he wore an eye-watering, neon-yellow t-shirt that probably could be seen all the way across the Bay. "Get your gorgeous butt back over here, Hardy. You need more mud in your face."

"Worm," Joe growled at Frank.

"Have fun," Frank said, smiling, and headed up the porch stairs.

Mar only raised an eyebrow, but headed outside, leaving Frank alone in the kitchen of the suite that he and Joe shared with Mar and Kris. Mar had been the Hardys' next door neighbor for years back in Bayport until she'd moved back to San Francisco; her adopted daughter, Kris (a runty, plain blonde about Joe's age) had been the brothers' tagalong shadow as they'd grown up. Frank and Joe were currently their summer guests out on Yerba Buena island in the middle of San Francisco Bay, before starting fall semester at SFSU. At least, as far as their dad Fenton knew, anyway.

The real story still gave Frank nightmares.

He and Joe had been recruited into the Association's Blades — guardians for an organization of the psychically Gifted — following a near-fatal encounter with two Gifted serial killers at Mardi Gras. That encounter had also been responsible for Joe's crutch and too many scars, both mental and physical, for both brothers.

Finding out that the spooky stuff was real had been a huge shock that Frank hadn't entirely settled with. Finding out that Joe was one of those Gifted on top of that…

Frank picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"You know how to keep a girl waiting, don't you?" said Nancy Drew's dry voice. "Please tell me that brother of yours isn't anywhere around."

Frank glanced out the patio doors — it looked as if little Rita and Emelio had been persuaded to betray their team. Both had tackled Joe, allowing the other side to score goals with ease, despite a spirited defense. "We're safe. He's face-down in the dirt at the moment."

"Good. Feel like playing tour guide?"

"You're coming out here?"

There was a pause. "I thought that was what I just said."

It couldn't be a social call, not from New York to California. "You're working a case." Please be wrong, please…

Nancy sighed. "You have a way of taking all the fun out of things, you know that?"

"You _are_ working a case."

"Fine, be that way. Just something Dad took on that's turned out to have bigger scope than his client thought." Nancy's voice turned decidedly testy. "Nothing for _you_ to get involved with, believe me. It's my case."

"Don't worry. I won't." Frank didn't believe her, though. Every time he and Joe had run into her, they'd gotten dragged in on the _it's-my-case_ anyway. "So you're calling just to tell me to keep out of it."

"Look, put your brother on the phone. At least he can take a hint without me dropping it on him from twenty stories up."

"At least he can tell me things straight up without playing twenty questions."

Silence.

"Sorry." Nancy didn't sound it, though. "Okay. Yes. I'm coming out to San Francisco. I'm running some information down for one of Dad's clients. Your father told my father that you two were out there for school. I just want a local guide and a friendly face, that's it."

"Now who's taking all the fun out of things?"

That got an even longer silence. "Frank Hardy…"

Something about the way Nancy said his name… "Sorry," Frank said, and meant it.

A hint of a smile warmed her voice. "You want my flight information or not?"

Three slips of scrawled post-it-notes and a bit more small talk later, Frank hung up and went back outside onto the deck. Suddenly it was a gorgeous day: bright blue sky, no fog, and the charcoal smell of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs smoking up from the café. Oh, yeah, and the phone call. Almost perfect.

The soccer game had broken up; Kris had scooped little Rita up into a piggy-back ride. Joe was brushing all the dirt off as Drake (the Blade's tough survival trainer and secret softie-towards-the-kids) gave him a hand up.

"Hey, Rockford." One of the kids from Wings, Rico, a Black teen with puppy-dog eyes, a lopsided smile, and waxy-looking burn scars on his face. He'd tagged Frank with the nickname after finding out that Frank and Joe's dad was a detective. "You look totally discombobulated."

It was easy to smile around most of the kids from Wings, despite their personal stories; Rico was no exception. "That's your word for today?" Frank said.

Rico nodded. "Got three of 'em. Discombobulated, discomfited, and interrobang. No one'll tell me what interrobang means, so I'm guessing it's something dirty."

"Let me guess. Joe gave you that one."

"Nah, Conan did." That was kids' code-name for Harold Downs, one of the Blades who made an extremely convincing sword-and-sorcery-barbarian model for the art sessions at Wings, and who was a constant pain-in-the-neck to Frank and Joe. "I couldn't find it in the dictionary."

Smiling, Frank shook his head.

"Aw, c'mon, man, _please?"_

But Frank had been spotted; Joe had limped close enough to overhear. "Forget it, Rico," Joe rasped. While the past couple months had brought some healing to Joe's voice, it still sounded as if Joe had been breathing smoke all his life. "He's got his own interrobang going on."

" _Bait,_ you don't even know what that means," Downs drawled. He was drowned out by little Rita squealing _"¡Ángel! ¡Ángel!"_ as she wiggled off Kris's back and limped-ran towards Frank, who caught Rita and swung her up onto his shoulders. She was almost too heavy for that perch, but Frank wasn't about to deny her.

" _Ángel"_ wasn't Angel, who was still on the playing field and flirting with any woman nearby. After everything that had happened last month, little Rita had decided Frank and Joe were angels and nothing Frank, Joe, or anyone else said could disabuse her of the idea.

"Cool it in front of the kids, Harold," Joshua growled, but Joe had ignored the taunt.

"I know enough." Joe went into an annoying-little-brother sing-song, all the more obnoxious because Joe was 18. "Frank's got a _girlfriend,_ Frank's got a _girlfriend…"_

Nancy was just a friend, but trying to convince Joe of that was pointless. But before Frank could come up with a retort, Kris had chimed in with her own off-key sing-song behind Joe. "Joe and Jamie sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…"

To Frank's delight, it got picked up by the kids nearby — including Rita — and several of the adults. At that point, Frank could've hugged Kris; his and Joe's little tagalong had just earned herself a pizza.

"I don't need to sit in a tree to do that," Joe said, with dignity.

A willowy blonde with a blue paint smear on her nose had come over and slipped her arm around Joe's waist: Joe's girlfriend, Jamie Hollis. An art grad student on a NEA grant with SFSU, she'd had the kids who hadn't been in the game drawing the various players. "Oooo, that sounds like fun. I'll have to work that into my plot to take over the world." She grinned into Joe's face, but Joe only pulled her into a long kiss that resulted in whoops from both kids and adults.

"Nancy's coming out here," Frank said to Joe. Rita squirmed, and Frank swung her back down to set her gently on the ground. She went running off with Emelio towards the food tables.

Joe broke the suction with Jamie with a squelch. "Did you really just admit that to your younger brother?"

Frank gave Joe his best blank look. "So?"

"Get popcorn ready, Tag," Joe said to Kris. "You'll get to see Frank's technique in action. Everything _not_ to do."

"Like yours is any better," Frank said.

"Um…this is the girl you were telling me about?" Kris said. No smile, as usual. "The one he flipped for?"

Great, Joe had infected their tagalong with his _Nancy-is-Frank's-girlfriend_ delusion, too.

"Let me guess." Jamie gave Frank one of her dazzling smiles. "Karate throw."

"Judo," Joe said. "Flat on his back and totally speechless. It was love at first flight."

"Someone threw _Frank?"_ Joshua said as he came over. "You're joking, Beautiful."

"Nancy Drew," Joe said. "A detective friend of ours from New York. Frank's girlfriend."

"Part-time investigator." Nancy had pounded that phrase into Frank's head, and he didn't dare call her anything else. "She does investigative work for her father. He's a lawyer in NYC." Frank kept his voice casual; anything else would just add fuel to Joe's delusion. "She's just a friend."

"A detective _and_ a daughter of a lawyer." Joshua shook his head. "You really do like trouble, Handsome."

"She wants me to play tour guide." Frank was starting to panic, just a little. "It'll look odd if I keep her away from this place — she knows me and Joe are living out here."

Joshua shrugged. "Bring her out. We have normals visiting all the time, _ché._ It won't hurt. We live _in_ the world. We don't separate."

"You don't know her," Joe said. "She's worse than me and Frank were."

"Are," Kris said.

"What she said," Joshua said, grinning. "Seriously, bring her out if she wants, _ché_. Just give us a heads-up, so we can move any training into the closed-rooms."

"Oh, good, someone to pair with you for my next project," Jamie said to Frank. "Strong independent woman, strong good-looking guy. Maybe I can convince her to get you —"

" _No,"_ Frank cut her off firmly. "She's just a friend. That's all."

That got muffled snickers from the Center folk within earshot. Jamie's art projects had notoriety throughout the Center, though Frank couldn't get anyone to say exactly why. It involved a lot of hem-hawing on Joe's part, and lately, Jamie had been getting persistent in her attempts to get Frank to model for her, much to Joe's amusement.

"You and Nancy together," Joe said. "Yeah. I can see that."

"Pervert," Kris muttered.

"If any of you say 'how much trouble can she be', I'll hurt you," Frank said.

Joe's mouth quirked. "Well, you just said it. So the jinx is now officially all your fault, brother."

Shaking his head, Frank headed back upstairs. Since the soccer game had broken up, he wanted to sneak a fast shower before the burgers were served.

Perversity had other ideas, though. Joe followed him back up.

"Don't start," Frank said. "You can save all your wisecracks until I'm back outside. I'm getting a shower."

Joe raised an eyebrow. " _That_ kind of phone call. Nancy doesn't seem the type."

Nothing to throw. Towels weren't wet yet, so rat-tailing Little Brother was out, for the moment. And the last time Frank had tried a water balloon, it'd resulted in a quiet reminder from Mar about the wood floors. With the lack of anything at hand for immediate revenge, Frank kept his face pleasantly calm as he went into his room.

"And why are _you_ getting a shower?" Joe said. "I'm the one covered in dirt. I should be claiming first rights."

"Because I'm the older brother." Frank hefted a towel in a way that suggested, wet or not, a rat-tail could be imminent. "And you're younger, smaller, and more easily intimidated."

Joe rolled his eyes.

Frank went back to pulling out clean clothes from his bureau. His room finally felt like his; he and Joe had swapped rooms so that Frank had space for the huge oak desk he'd gotten from Joshua shortly after they'd arrived. The room's brick walls and hardwood floors matched the rest of the center, but now with the desk, the framed John Audubon prints and antique maps, the deep blue-and-indigo quilt patterned in interlocking squares, and the solid oak bookshelves, the room had more personality. The room of an intelligent man, Frank decided.

"So why is Nancy coming out? New York to San Francisco's a bit far for a social call." Then Joe cocked his head. "Did you hear something?"

Assorted screeches filtered in through the windows, topped by Downs' bellow for kids to settle down; Frank shook his head. "She says she's running down information for a case. She wouldn't tell me anything more than that."

"Great. Something that Carson's working on that brings her all the way out here. That means it's big. He usually stays pretty local." Joe peered towards Frank's closet. "Frank, I'm not joking — I'm hearing something."

"There's a few dozen screaming kids outside," Frank said as he brushed past Joe and headed towards the bathroom. "Anyway, Nancy told me to stay out of it. Which means we'll get dragged in sooner or later."

Joe didn't answer: he'd gone into Frank's room, headed for the closet.

Now that went too far. Frank and Joe shared almost everything, and Frank had no secrets from his brother, but they did respect each other's privacy. Joe could _ask_ before he went into Frank's room like that _._

"Frank, your closet's _purring."_

Frank throttled his irritation. "You better not be claiming Fred's here." Fred was the monster in the closet from when they were kids.

But Joe slid the closet door back, pushed clothes aside…and stopped. "You'd better come see this."

Frank had already come up behind him. The smell was horrible: wet damp, musk, blood. The source lay on the floor of his closet, curled up in a pile of sweatshirts and sweaters…

"I'd say this makes you officially a father," Joe said.

…one purring, content female cat, licking her newborn litter of kittens.


	2. Ringmaster's Secret

_**A/N:** Thanks to pen4lew, AlecTowser, RangerLyn, DuffyBarkley, MoonlightGypsy, SunshineInTheGraySky, Leyapearl, Ellie,  & CraftPenguin2002 for the reviews & favorites! You folks make the writing worthwhile!_

* * *

 _River Heights, New York_

Sighing, Nancy Drew looked at the mess of notes in the little orange notebook. This case wasn't going the way she'd expected it; it was becoming more trouble than it was worth. What had seemed to be straightforward embezzlement by the director of the Delta Corporation had turned into a huge, tangled mess that seemed to be heading straight up the ladder to the San Francisco parent company.

Rubbing at her forehead, she blew out a breath and ran her fingers through her titian hair. Best to start from the beginning. Re-writing it all out in order should help: step A to step B to step C and so on. Orderly, methodical, logical. Sometimes just untangling her jumbled notes helped jar her brain into seeing other connections.

The director in question, Paul Keller, had been embezzling funds from the companies' stockholders — soliciting backing for a project that was nothing more than an elaborate smokescreen. Keller was now in federal prison in L.A., but Nancy had uncovered more threads: similar projects that seemed to be nothing more than paper tigers, projects that hadn't been under Keller's over-sight.

Projects involving the Delta Corporation's parent company, the Weldon Rathbone Foundation…

"Nancy?" Carson Drew stood in her doorway. He was a small, balding man in his fifties, face creased with worry lines from being New York's most prominent lawyer. "All packed?"

Still frowning at her notebook, Nancy nodded. "I got in touch with Frank, too. He'll meet me at the airport."

"Oh, good. I was surprised when Fenton told me his boys were going to SFSU. Frank doesn't strike me as the California type. Joe, maybe, but not Frank." Dad smiled. "At least you'll have those nice young men looking out for you."

"Daddy," Nancy sighed, exasperated. She'd first crossed paths with the Hardys in an art theft case last year, and their paths weren't likely to un-cross any time soon. The detectives' convention had turned into a kidnapping and extortion case, a skiing competition in Europe had gotten entangled with a defection and organized crime…then Dad had started hiring Fenton Hardy on spec, whenever Nancy had been tied up with other work. A couple of the spec cases had brought Frank and Joe out to River Heights, when Fenton had judged the matter too sensitive to trust to mail or telephone.

"Can't blame your old father for hoping," Dad said.

"You can keep hoping," Nancy said. Hopefully her face wasn't as red as it felt. "Frank and I are just friends. That's all."

Who was she kidding? Her brain had been having quite a few ideas concerning Frank Hardy all on its own, without any help from Dad's matchmaking. It was frustrating, irritating, maddening — just like Frank.

Nancy sighed again. It wasn't like things were panning out with Ned, after all.

Thankfully, Dad took the hint. "Did you pack warm? San Francisco's pretty cold in the summer."

"Carson?" Hannah's voice echoed up the stairs; Hannah was their housekeeper and Nancy's surrogate mother, after hers had died when she was three. "Someone at the door for you. A Mister Hammond."

"I was hoping Harry'd come through," Dad said. "Be right back."

Nancy scowled at her notebook as she wrote: precise, neat, detailed. Logic, method, and order had to be her watchwords here. The East Coast director, Keller, already in jail: the $50,000 he'd embezzled from his clients had been half-recovered. But just $50,000? That hadn't matched what she'd seen during her investigation. Keller had been living a lot higher than his salary and that $50,000 suggested. There had been other irregular deposits into his bank account, but nothing in Keller's books gave a hint as to where the extra funds came from…or why.

At first, it'd seemed so straightforward and limited in scope — just Keller, just the one small division of Delta Corp — that the SEC and FBI had barely gotten involved, and the Rathbone Foundation had disavowed any knowledge of it. Dad's client hadn't been convinced; he'd insisted it was being swept under the rug too quickly.

"Nancy?" Dad was back in the doorway. "Can you come downstairs, please, hon? Mr. Hammond wants to talk to us both."

That startled her out of her concentration. Harry Hammond was Dad's contact in the Justice Department, through Fenton Hardy. Dad had stayed in contact with the FBI and had been passing all information they'd uncovered straight to the feds, not that there was much, yet. So far, the FBI hadn't been interested beyond polite "thank you for being public-minded citizens."

So Hammond wanted to talk to her, too? Interesting.

Then again, the Rathbone Foundation had taken high-level government contracts. If the feds had finally gotten interested, this might be a request for Nancy to hand over her records and then cease and desist on the investigation, especially if national security was involved.

Harry Hammond was a square-jawed, dark-haired man whose demeanor and suit screamed "government agent". Nancy accepted a cup of coffee from Hannah, then settled into the sofa across from Hammond.

"My daughter, Nancy," Dad said. "Nancy, this is Harry Hammond."

Best to take the bull by the horns. Getting Dad on the wrong side of the FBI was not what Nancy wanted. "Is this about the Rathbone Foundation, Mr. Hammond?" Nancy said politely. "If so, I'll need to go get all my notes and records." Better to hand them over now, rather than have the feds waltz in with a court order and seize them. The last time that had happened, it'd taken her, Ned, and Dad a month to get Dad's office and files back in order.

Hammond smiled. "No, not yet. You're still investigating the Keller fraud?" At Nancy's nod, he sighed. "We're very familiar with your client, believe me. He's on the phone hassling one of my colleagues every couple days. We are going over Rathbone's government contracts with a fine tooth comb, but we're confident that the Delta situation is done. But keep us in the loop, just in case, all right?"

Puzzled, Nancy nodded. Okay. None of Dad's other cases touched on anything involving the federal government, as far as she knew.

"I heard you were going out to San Francisco," Hammond said.

"Well…yes. That's part of the same investigation."

"I also understand you've worked with Fenton Hardy's sons in the past."

Nancy and Dad exchanged a look. That didn't sound good. "I've been hiring Fenton to help with some of the investigative backlog," Dad said. "Nancy and Ned do what they can, but we've been swamped lately."

"There's none better to do so," Hammond said, smiling. "No, I'm talking specifically about your daughter and his sons. Fenton told me about the art thefts."

"I wouldn't call it 'worked with'," Nancy said. If Hammond was planning on asking her to team up with them for whatever reason, best to lay it on the line right now. "More like, 'bumped into two total amateurs who refused to let me handle my own case'."

"Oh?"

"Their idea of 'investigating' is to sneak around and hope luck's on their side," Nancy said. "No organization. No method. No logic."

"Really." Hammond seemed amused.

"That hasn't been my experience, Harry," Dad said. "They're two intelligent young men taking after their father in all the best ways."

"You haven't been the one dealing with them," Nancy said.

"That explains a lot, young lady," Hammond said. "You're very perceptive. Because we think they're in trouble."

That made no sense. "I just talked to Frank about an hour ago. He sounded fine."

"They may not want to admit it. They're young and too sure of themselves. Worse, they may not believe it." Hammond lit a cigarette in a puff of smoke. "Tell me, have either of you ever heard of the Association?"

Both Nancy and her father shook their heads.

"There's not much I can tell you," Hammond said, "other than it's an organization we've had our eyes on for a while. They've interfered with several of our operations, and we suspect ties to…well…unfriendly sources."

"Communist," Nancy said.

Hammond spread his hands with a shrug. "What I do know is that they've recruited Frank and Joe — the story was that they got offered a free ride to SFSU after they helped some of the Association's people. I approached them before they left and asked them to keep in touch with anything they found. That was the last I heard from them."

Nancy shifted uncomfortably. Those two had a knack for getting in over their heads; she remembered the detectives convention too well. Joe had gone exploring on his own without any backup and had gotten caught by the kidnapper — _twice,_ despite having gotten away the first time — and Frank had nearly been run down and almost caught himself.

Of course, Frank had then had the nerve to tell Nancy to sit tight and not get involved. Not that she'd listened, but still…

"I can't see those young men getting involved with anything subversive," Dad said. "Fenton's well-versed in such things, and very canny. He would've passed all that to his sons."

"You'd think," Hammond said. "But anyone can be subverted, or brainwashed. Especially by these people."

"You mean like a cult," Nancy said.

Again, that _I-don't-know_ shrug. "Now I know you've got work to do in San Francisco, and I don't want to interfere with that, especially if it involves the Rathbone Foundation. But are you going to be meeting with those boys?"

"I'd asked Frank if he'd mind showing me around. Just so I'd have a friendly face to talk to out there."

"That's fine. That's perfect, in fact. Keep your eyes and ears open, that's all I ask."

"I don't want my daughter going undercover in a cult," Dad said. "She's had no training in undercover work."

"Oh, nothing like that," Hammond said. "In fact, Nancy, at no point do I want you placing yourself at risk. All I want is for you to listen, observe, and let me know what you find out, no matter how trivial you think it."

Nancy and her father exchanged another look. "Sounds simple enough," Nancy said.

"One other thing, though." Hammond pulled out a necklace from his pocket, handed it to her. "Wear this at all times."

Nancy took it. A polished quartz point, set in silver etched with odd lettering; the point was the size of her thumb. "It's lovely."

"It's protection," Hammond said. "You see, one thing about the Association we do know….

"…they're psychic."


	3. Secret Warning

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews & follows, Wendylouwho10, MoonlightGypsy, AlecTowser, Ellie, Xenithia, Barb, SunshineInTheGraySky, "j", ILoveMom, DuffyBarkley, & Caranath! Ellie: updates will be every other day, barring ISP or Health issues. Barb: You'll be hearing from me a lot; my next tale is near-finished, too ("Soul Survivor"). On to the story!_

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* * *

# # #

"You need to practice more, _chè,"_ Joshua said. "That means using that Gift of yours, not pretending it doesn't exist."

Panting, Joe sagged against his crutch. They were out back of Bay Area Center, running the usual tag-team "king of the hill" game that Joshua had devised to help his Blades learn to work as a team. After two months, Joe had finally gotten beyond the basics; he was no longer allowed to simply stand and shield while Frank did all the physical work. Now Joshua insisted that Joe defend himself as well, and what Joe had thought was the easy part had turned into one-sided warfare.

Having a crutch and crippled legs wasn't an excuse, either, not with Noah Saalburg as part of the attacking team. A Blade from NYC, Noah was a Vietnam vet who'd had his legs blown off at the knee; he used two forearm crutches as well as artificial legs. The way he moved — Joe never wanted to get on the man's bad side.

Joe was dirt-smeared, sweating, and exhausted, and Frank wasn't in any better shape. "If I use it, I'll draw attention to myself," Joe said. "It'll get noticed."

"And if you don't use it, someone who's in practice will run you into the ground," Joshua said. "You're still thinking through every move, and by the time you decide what to do, you're dead. No excuses, darlin'."

"He's right, Joe," Frank said between gulps of air. "It's like karate. It has to get instinctive."

Joe gave him a dirty look. "You're supposed to be on my side, y'know."

"And you're supposed to be watching my back, not wasting time deciding what to do."

Ouch. Problem was, Joe didn't want it to become instinctive. He'd reacted on instinct last month, and look what that had almost cost him.

"The lesson's not sinking in," Joshua said. "So I've got permission from Eli for this — we are going to run you ragged until it all becomes automatic."

"Run me ragged?" Joe echoed.

"You heard me. And I'm not going to tell you what that means. Get paranoid, that's all I'm saying, _ché._ "

"Wonderful," Joe muttered; he saw Frank hide a grin. Obviously Frank knew what it meant and wasn't going to tell.

"The only way to get better is to use it…and you're not getting off easy, either, Handsome," Joshua said to Frank. "When Mar gets back, we're going to start phase two for you."

"Phase two?" Frank said.

Joshua ignored that. "Jamie, darlin', come on in. We've abused them enough for the day."

Since Joshua's usual conspirator was busy — Kris was helping some Wings kids get settled in new housing — Joshua had recruited Joe's girlfriend Jamie as his sniper, arming her with an M16 paintball gun and instructions to splatter the brothers whenever they did anything that gave their position away. Combined with Noah and Joshua trying to take the brothers out and Joshua hurling mage-bolts at them that Joe had to shield from…

No, not one-sided warfare, after all. More like cornered by a pack of hungry, rabid dogs while Joe held a pound of bacon.

"Darn." Jamie swung down from the jungle gym, the M16 slung over her shoulder like a baseball bat. Joshua had taught her gun-basics right before the session, which made Jamie's aim…interesting. "I almost finished my masterpiece. A couple more shots? Please?"

Joe had been pulling his safety-goggles off. He pulled them back down over his face immediately.

Giggles followed Jamie's statement. Little Rita sat on top of the jungle gym; her brother Emelio hung by his knees, then swung himself down to the ground. The two children had taken to following Frank and Joe almost everywhere. After everything last month, Joe didn't have the heart to make them stop.

Rita and Emelio were being fostered by Downs and his wife, though CPS was still trying to find relatives to take the kids in permanently. There was some question whether their dead mother had even been in the country legally, but both children had been born here, making them citizens. It was a paperwork and legal snarl that Joe didn't want to try to wrap his brain around.

"You hit us any more," Frank said to Jamie, "and we'll be out of commission for good."

"And Nancy's flying in tonight," Joe said. "Being in commission is rather important for Frank's ego."

" _Joe,"_ Frank said.

Joe and Frank were paint-splattered head to foot, Jamie's gleeful idea of "giving their position away" being "whenever I feel like it." Laughing, Jamie handed Joshua the M16 and ammo belts, then threw her arms around Joe's neck, heedless of wet paint or balance.

"I think I can get you back in commission pretty quick." Jamie lightly touched Joe's upper thigh. "You need a couple more here, my Evil Minion. Just to add to the overall impressionistic effect."

Her shirt was tied up to expose her paint-smeared midriff, golden hair shining in the sun, green eyes daring him. "Is that an offer?" Joe said, and Jamie pulled him into a serious kiss that made his heart pound.

"Get a room, you two," Frank said, then turned to scoop up Rita when she and Emelio ran over.

Joe pulled away, just enough to catch his breath. "I'll take that as an order." He let Jamie lead him back in and to her rooms, then accepted her offer to use her shower…

…not that Joe took the shower alone, important point. Important, _wonderful_ point.

"You owe me lunch," Jamie said as they dried off. "That was an entire morning wasted, when I could've been working on my scheme to take over the art world."

That didn't seem fair. "Josh was the one who recruited you, not me."

"Because of you, my Fluffy Cute Minion." Jamie's fingers brushed over Joe's skin, tracing the outline of the phoenix ink across his belly and up his back. Joe still hadn't decided when to get it permanent — the thought of sitting for a couple hours every day getting poked by needles was a definite downside — but Jamie didn't seem to mind re-drawing it whenever it faded.

"Then I'll just have to bribe you with cuddling kittens, my Evil Overlord." The kittens were just over a week old: cute fluff balls that the brothers hadn't had the heart to evict. Most of the females in the Center had gone into squealing ecstasy over the litter and kept making excuses to visit Frank's rooms — not that either brother minded.

"I'll do that anyway," Jamie said. "Nope. You're still buying lunch."

Joe had spent the morning getting run to exhaustion and shot with paint, followed by a wonderful, relaxing hour or so here. No, he wasn't going to argue, not when Jamie was pressing against him again, and then Joe was lost, kissing her so gently, so ferociously…

Morning definitely not wasted.

Finally, arm in arm, they wandered back through the Center, Jamie snuggled under his arm and pulling him into odd corners for those kisses that made his heart pound. But when they reached the commons, Joe's plans for a free afternoon wandering San Francisco were completely blown.

"There you are." Joshua waved him over. "Back to the war-room, _ché._ We've got a situation."

"I'm busy with my own situation here," Joe said, but Jamie laughed and _beep-_ ed him on the nose.

"Go on. I'll take my payback later." Jamie pulled his head down so she could murmur in his ear, "With honey."

That really wasn't fair. With a sigh, Joe followed Joshua back.

With the huge oak desk gone, the space now looked like a war-room, instead of an office: a round table with a map of the Bay Area spread on it and more maps on the near wall above the filing cabinets, a police scanner and short-wave radio set-up, and comfortable couches spaced around the room. Another table in the corner bore one of the new Mr. Coffee machines, complete with a mini-fridge loaded with beer and soda. One wall was nothing but windows — and Jamie had finished the stained glass project. Awed, Joe halted: the windows glowed with an abstract pattern of jewel-like reds, yellows, and blues.

"Eyes forward, _ché_ ," Joshua said. "You can ogle your girlfriend's work later."

"Telling Joe not to ogle Jamie is a losing battle," Frank said.

Joe hadn't noticed Frank until that moment, sitting next to another Center resident, Matt Harris, a grizzled white man with burly muscles and burn-scars lacing his arms. Matt wasn't a Blade, but a city firefighter.

"Just because _you_ have no one to ogle at the moment," Joe said. To Joshua, "Nancy's flying in tonight, in case my lovesick brother forgets to mention it."

" _Joe…"_

"Oh, good. Even more complications to our simple life here," Joshua said. "Anyway, Matt's brought us a problem."

"A firebug," Matt said. "They torched their fourth building yesterday. The Intercontinental in SoMa."

"You mean that one with all the blue glass?" Joe said, shocked. Jamie had taken him through the South of Market district last week, and Joe had admired the engineering feat that made the building look like a tropical aquarium. It'd glowed brilliant blue in the sunlight, with the whole entry lobby taken up by plants and a fountain that stretched between first and second floors.

"Arson," Frank said. "Shouldn't that be for the fire marshal and the cops?"

"Normally," Joshua said. "But this isn't normal. That's where you two come in."

"I'm still on probation," Joe said.

"I'm aware of that, _ché._ But you're coming along okay in your training and you've shown you're in control. I'll be talking with Eli to lift the babysitting _pro tem._ Don't give me a reason to reinstate it."

Joe nodded. "Understood." He'd been placed on probation shortly after arriving at Bay Area Center last month. He'd lashed out at someone tailing him, and the resulting uproar had nearly gotten Joe tossed from the Blades.

"I'm a Sensitive and a 'path," Matt said. "There's something not right about the fires, but I can't get any specifics what. There's no trace of accelerants, but no normal cause, either. We haven't gotten all the results back from the Intercontinental yet, but I'm not laying bets."

Joe and Frank exchanged a look. "Path" was Association slang for empaths and telepaths, since those Gifts usually showed up in conjunction. Sensitive meant sensitive to energy: electricity, magic, or just "vibes". Sensitivity wasn't technically a Gift, as it was something most people had if they paid attention to it, but the Association trained it to fine-tune it.

"No cause," Frank said. "You mean no ignition sources, no spontaneous combustion or chemicals stored wrong, and nothing gone haywire. They can't figure out how the arsonist started it, either?"

"Exactly. Last night, case in point. Fire broke out in four different spots in the building. Nothing wrong with the electricity, everything up to code, and it all passed inspection last month." Matt stared down at his beer. "Worse, none of the alarms or sprinklers went off. Not a single one."

"No one was hurt?" Frank said.

"Seven people killed. Including a couple kids and their mother visiting daddy at the office. They got trapped on the top floor." Matt's voice choked off, his hands white-knuckled around the bottle.

"When you say something's not right," Joe said, after the silence had stretched out, "do you mean your 'path? Or the Sensitivity?"

Matt didn't look up. "I think… _think_ …it's the Sensitivity. Usually anything to do with my 'path sounds like someone's whispering in the next room. This feels like I'm waiting for someone to gun me down."

Joe did not like the sound of this. "Pyrokinesis?"

"Or mage-Gift," Joshua said. "That's part of what you need to find out, _ché._ SFFD normally doesn't work with us, so you two will be doing this on the Q.T."

"They're adding felony murder to the charges," Matt said. "That's bringing SFPD in."

"I'll check with Sam," Joshua said; Samuel Flores was another Center resident, a homicide detective with the SFPD. "But for now, you don't have any official access to the crime scenes. I shouldn't have to tell you what that means."

Joe glanced at Frank; his brother nodded slowly. Their little tagalong Kris was the Blade's mouse, good at being un-noticed and over-looked, and Joe knew she enhanced that with her Gifts. Definitely time to add to his training.

"Matt, _ché,_ I need to talk to these two privately, if you don't mind," Joshua said.

Nodding, Matt got to his feet. "These two are probably the only Blades who could pass muster with the Chief because of their dad. Thanks, Butterfly."

Joe looked up. That was unexpected.

"Frank, Joe, let me know if you need anything from SFFD. I can't promise, but I'll do my best." With that, Matt left.

"Okay, why us?" Frank said, the moment the door closed. "We're still new. Joe's on probation, and he's barely trained. We don't even know the city that well."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Joe muttered.

"That's exactly why, _ché_. This should be fairly straight-forward. I won't call it easy, mind." Joshua sighed. "You've got investigative experience, more than any of us had when we started, and your daddy's rep might let you squeak under the official radar. You've definitely got more knowledge of forensics than anyone I know in the Blades. You've shown you can take the heat. Now you need to prove you can take orders and run with the team." Joshua tossed a file folder onto the table. "That's the info SFFD's collected so far. Matt copied it for us."

"Something to give to Nancy," Joe said to Frank. "A nice little mystery. She'll like that better than than flowers."

"She's got her own case, Joe." Leafing through the folder, Frank sounded distracted. "And Josh said 'on the Q.T.'"

"I'm aware you'll have your guest," Joshua said. "I don't expect you to ignore her. I do expect as much effort as you can. If it's a rogue Gifted, we need to stop 'em fast."

"Stop?" Joe said.

Joshua was silent for a long moment. "It all depends on the situation. Whoever's doing it, and _why._ Be aware of your choice, darlin's. That's all I can say."

The brothers were quiet as they walked back upstairs. "After we go over the file, we should check the public records," Frank said finally. "See who owns and leases in those buildings. Maybe there's a pattern."

"Maybe." Their first real assignment as Blades: it was a test, Joe knew it. "Folks who do serial anything aren't the most mentally stable."

"There'll still be a pattern," Frank sighed, "just not one that'll make sense to us."

"It might not even be Gifted. It could be normal arson, and SFFD just hasn't found how they're starting it."

"Or worse, they do know and someone's covering it up. The businesses in that area are serious money." Frank scowled. "There was something about Intercontinental in the news recently. Something about the parent company."

Joe didn't answer. He didn't need to: Frank would likely head for the library to look it up anyway. But the Association and the Blades kept surprising them. When Joshua had first mentioned training, neither Joe nor Frank had thought much of it — spooky stuff, nothing that needed serious work. Maybe a bit of extra reading, that was it.

Then reality had hit. Basics in all the Gifts, how they worked, how to spot fakery, basic folklore, ghost-lore, and various occult paths — enough so they could recognize what something was — what to do at potential crime scenes. Training for the Blades wasn't a one-time thing. It was continual, as beliefs changed and new ways cropped up…and the ghoulies, beasties, and things that went bump in the night adapted with human society.

On top of all _that_ , Drake's lessons in survival — everything from fighting skills to street-awareness and "attitude". Frank being in a wrist cast for most of the month hadn't gotten him out of the sessions — Drake had focused on working around it, and both Drake and Noah had been working with Joe on ways to turn his crippled legs and crutch from a liability into a serious weapon.

The brothers came back into the section they shared with Mar and Kris; Kris was hauling a box out of her hallway. She shoved it up against the living room wall to join the others piled there, then straightened and stretched. "Finally. I've got a spare room again."

"Except now you've got all these boxes to haul downstairs," Frank said, smiling.

"That's what I've got you for, big brother."

" _Oh?"_

Kris drooped, her expression pathetic and pleading. "You're tons stronger than I am, and I've been hauling stuff all morning to get Tanya and Kim settled, and I could really, really use the help."

Joe kept his face straight: pathetic little Tagalong versus chivalrous Older Brother. This promised to be good.

"I also scooped out the litter box," Kris added. "Moggie was sick again." Moggie was the mama cat for the newborn litter; she had run of the Center, but had taken a liking to Frank and Joe. Not that Joe minded: up until the kittens were born, Moggie had been a comforting, purring weight on his shoulder and hip at night, and he'd taken to leaving his door open just so she could get in the room — when Joe wasn't with Jamie, anyway.

Older Brother was also too easy to guilt-trip. "Okay, Tag," Frank sighed. "You win. Where to?"

"Downstairs storage. Oh, and Rita and Eme are keeping an eye on the kittens." Now Kris sounded more than amused — that alone was unusual. She was on the verge of _bouncy_.

"Well," Joe said, with an exaggerated sigh, "might as well get started." He nodded at the box pile listing dangerously to port. "Go on, Frank. Sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get moving on Josh's assignment."

"The sooner _we_ get this done?" Frank said.

"Someone has to oversee the project. I'm a big-picture sort of person. I'll stand here and manage you."

"This is revenge for Egypt, isn't it?"

"Would I do that to you?"

" _Yes!"_

"Would you listen to this, Tag? The things I put up with…" Joe shook his head sadly. "Accusing your little brother like that, Frank. I wouldn't hold a grudge over Egypt." Joe picked up a grocery sack stuffed with old toys and held it out to Frank. "Transylvania, on the other hand…"

Hands on his hips, Frank heaved a sigh, then set the bag to one side as he re-stacked the boxes into something better balanced.

"Poor abused big brother," Kris said, and Joe blinked; she was _smiling?_ "Frank, if you want, Nancy can use the spare room. I just need to get the bed set up in there."

Openly annoyed, Frank glared. "Tag, if you want help moving furniture up here, you could just _ask."_

"Straight up, big brother. The stuff's already there. The bed's just in pieces." Kris slanted a glance at Joe. "The big-picture person can help me put it together."

Joe grinned. _"Touché."_ Something odd was up: Kris normally didn't allow strangers in her space. "Hopefully it's king-size. And the way Frank snores, you'll need heavy duty soundproofing."

Frank ignored that. "That means Nancy'll be sharing your hallway, Tag."

"It's okay." Kris bubbled over; she _laughed,_ pure delighted glee. "I'll be in Seattle all weekend. I scored front-row seats for both Karma shows and a room at a hotel right across from the Coliseum!"

Now Joe exchanged grins with Frank; Kris was usually so serious, it hurt. Hearing their little tagalong sound so happy was a joy in itself. She was in a sort-of relationship with Vão Carvalo and Rafe Hollen, the singer and guitarist for the rock band Karma. _Sort-of_ , because Joe wasn't sure how serious it really was, and from what he'd observed, Kris wasn't certain, either. "Going to surprise them?"

Kris nodded, bouncing a little. "Saturday's Vão's birthday."

"So you're _really_ going to surprise him, then," Joe said and was rewarded by Kris blushing. Teasing Tagalong was even better than needling Frank. "Both of them? Or just Vão?"

"Joe," Frank said.

"Y'know, Jamie's got some books that might help — the pop-up Kama Sutra…"

" _Joe!"_

Kris's blush deepened. "Um…I didn't mean it like that…I was just going to…um…I mean, I don't know…"

"Ignore him, Tag," Frank said. "He can't get a rise out of me on Nancy, so he's going after an easier target."

"Nancy'll get plenty of rises out of you, I'm sure," Joe said. "Tag, you sure you want to go? You'll miss all the fireworks here."

"I've never been to Seattle," Kris mumbled, still red. "And it's just for the weekend. I'll be back in plenty of time to meet her."

"She's flying in tonight," Frank said. "You'll meet her at dinner."

Kris shook her head. "I'm flying out tonight."

"Ahhh, that way you've got all Friday with them before the shows, you mean," Joe teased, and Kris blushed even more.

"Make sure you visit the underground city," Frank said, smiling. "A lot of Seattle was built below ground level at the turn of the century, after a big fire. Should be tons of ghosts."

"Frank, she's not going to Seattle to visit caves. Who in their right mind goes to a rock concert to see _caves?"_

"History's more interesting than kindergarten pop-up books, Joe. Try it sometime. You might actually impress Jamie for a change." Frank picked up one of the heavier boxes. "Okay, big-picture person. You can carry the little stuff. Get moving."

Joe snagged a light box, something he could balance easily despite his crutch. As they worked at getting the pile to the downstairs storage room, they told Kris about their assignment. Joe kept a weather-eye out for Jamie; hopefully she hadn't forgotten about lunch.

"The Intercontinental thing looked pretty bad on the news," Kris said. "But this is supposed to be a vacation for you."

"I've been going stir-crazy," Frank admitted. "There's only so much tourist stuff I can do before my brain melts."

"Speak for yourself, brother," Joe said. "But I'd rather have trouble assigned to us, instead of it dropping on us out of nowhere."

"Proactive trouble-making, you mean," Frank said.

"Exactly. Especially since Nancy's coming in. So now we're perfectly safe from whatever she's about to drop on us, because Josh's already dropped us into his."

"C'mon, Nancy's not that bad — _Joe, look out!"_

Joe threw himself back against the wall —

— as fire-bolts sizzled past him to impact on the bricks in a splash of red.


	4. Clue in the Embers

_**A/N:** Happy New Year, everyone! Thanks for the reviews  & follows: Caranath, Xenithia, AlecTowser, Leyapearl, ILoveMom, & the guest reviewer who left the Love Boat lyrics as a comment - that made me laugh! For some reason, though, FFNet isn't showing some of the reviews, though I approved all the guest posts & got email notices on them. Anyone else having that problem? Any way, here's hoping your New Year's filled with lots of great stories & creativity!_

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Boxes crashed down. Frank dodged, came up in defensive stance, trying to see who: some dark shape…

He jerked as a third bolt grazed his shoulder. That _stung._

Joe yelped: Kris had slipped behind him and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. "Yield," Kris said, "or I'll shock it."

Silence.

"No fair, _ché,"_ Joshua said from the corner of the hallway. "I wanted a desperate scramble and some good thumping bruises, not a quick and dirty cheat."

Relaxing his stance, Frank breathed out. Just the real-world lesson Joshua had cooked up: ambushing Joe until he got the point about his shields and Gift.

"There's breakable stuff in these boxes," Kris retorted. "You want half the Center coming after you?"

"Point taken." Joshua didn't sound apologetic at all.

"Well, one thing's certain." Eli came into the hallway to survey the scene; an elderly Black man, he was the head of Bay Area Center and the one who'd placed Joe on probation. "He did stay in control. He's learned that much, at least."

"Happy to oblige," Joe rasped.

"Having seen this, I'll agree to lifting the chaperoning, Joshua," Eli went on. "We'll discuss the rest. You and Joe come talk to me after you finish here."

"I'm helping Tag." Joe hadn't moved, hands clenched around his crutch.

"When you can, then. Joshua?"

Joshua nodded, and Eli left. "Okay, Joe, you were warned this morning," Joshua said. "Why were your shields down?"

Rubbing at his shoulder, Frank shook his arm out. "That _hurt_ , Josh."

"Learn to get out of the way, Handsome. I told you what we'd be doing. No excuses."

Joshua had gone over it yesterday, when he'd explained to Frank and the other Blades what they'd be doing to train their newest member. Though Joshua hadn't said it would get that rough — he could've given Frank some warning.

"Is that what you meant by getting paranoid?" Joe rasped. "Drilling holes in me?"

Frank sighed at Joe's tone. _"Joe…"_

"You weren't shielded at all, Joe," Kris said. "I shouldn't have been able to touch-target you like that, and you should have nailed me good, that close."

"But I could've really hurt you, Tag."

"And I could've killed _you."_

"An enemy won't be polite, _ché,"_ Joshua said. "Look what happened — I got you good and distracted, and Kris got you from behind."

"Downs won't be as nice as we were," Kris said. "Fair warning."

"Wonderful," Joe muttered.

"Like I said, _ché_ , get used to it," Joshua said. "Check in with me after you're done."

Picking boxes back up, Frank said nothing as Joshua left. But Joe grabbed Kris's arm. "Don't _ever_ grab me from behind like that!"

"No go." Kris shook Joe off. "I don't want another New Orleans, big brother. None of us do."

"An enemy won't play fair, Joe," Frank said. "You know that."

Joe looked from Frank to Kris and back. Frank kept his expression implacable, not giving in. If Joe tried the _but you're my brother_ line, Frank was going to dump ice cubes in his bed.

But Joe only got re-balanced on his crutch and the lighter box back up on his shoulder. "So I'm going to get ambushed any time, any where, is that it?"

"Our bedrooms are off limits." Frank smiled. "No one wanted to hurt the kittens by accident."

"I'll start carrying the little squeakers around with me," Joe said darkly. "One on each shoulder."

"Shielding's easier," Kris said. "Unless you want kittens clawing your face off to get away."

Joe sighed. "I'm trying, Tag. I'm doing things exactly like Josh shows me. But by the time I pull a shield up, I'm already dead."

"But why are you _dropping_ it? You're supposed to leave 'em up, not start from scratch each time."

Silence.

"Tell me it wasn't that simple," Frank said to Joe.

Joe said nothing as they shoved the boxes into an open corner of the storage room and headed back upstairs.

"You're not going to be able to leisurely gather energy in a fight, Joe." Frank knew that from karate: an attacker would never give you time to prepare.

Joe glared. "Look, I feel stupid enough. You don't need to rub it in."

"You're not stupid." Frowning, Kris bit her lip. "You're just not used to the Gifts. That's why Josh's doing this."

"But it's a waste of energy. I have to keep concentrating to keep them up over me and Frank."

"Um…I'm not talking about _those,_ big brother _._ I'm talking about the inside ones on your skin."

Joe looked at Frank. "Does that count as one of her explanations-that-make-no-sense?"

" _These."_ Kris thumped Joe's arm. "Your personal ones. The ones you _still_ don't have up."

"I'm not going to kill her," Joe said towards the ceiling. "I'm going to wait very patiently until she gets around to explaining. Which she will, one of these days, I'm sure of it."

"Don't look at me," Frank said to Kris. "I have no clue what you're talking about, either."

"Sorry," Kris said, rubbing at her forehead. "I'm talking about personal shielding, not area. It's different. Didn't Josh teach you about the battery?"

Frank only half-listened as Kris started explaining, but followed Kris back to her hallway. It didn't affect him; no need to pay attention. Frank stopped at the spare room and looked in, as Kris and Joe went into Kris's study.

The spare room was bare and spartan, the same brick and hardwood as the rest of the Center: the bed's head- and foot-boards leaned against the wall, next to both mattress and box spring. Two butcher-block nightstands. No curtains yet, though the windows faced the hillside; one could see the Bay and Golden Gate Bridge past the hill, if you leaned right. Frank went over to examine the bed frame: an old-fashioned four-poster. Shouldn't be too hard to put together — Frank checked his watch. Still plenty of time.

"Tag," he called, "you got a hammer? I can get started on the bed."

Silence greeted that, then Joe limped out into the hallway. "There's a really bad innuendo dying to be made there, you know."

"And you're not going to make it," Frank said as Joe handed him the hammer, "because you hate getting ice cubes dumped in your bed. Tag, what time's your flight?"

"Six." Kris wrestled the foot-board away from the wall. "I've got plenty of time."

"I can drive you to the airport," Frank said. "Nancy gets in around six-thirty."

"Thank you," Kris said, then flicked her hand out.

Joe flinched — and caught himself, blinking.

"Okay…?" Frank hadn't seen anything.

"I can't do bolts like Josh. I just hit Joe with the magic equivalent of a rubber-band. Like this." Kris flicked her hand out again, and _something_ stung Frank's forearm.

"She tried, anyway," Joe said, grinning. "I just hope it stands up to Josh."

"But you did them in New Orleans." Frank examined his arm: a small reddish mark, like an insect bite. "You flashed gold like Joe does — Tag, I _saw_ you."

She'd been shaking her head. "I was pretty angry. And scared out of my wits."

"Adrenaline rush, you mean."

"Um, sort of." Kris shifted from foot to foot. "I think Josh…um…called in help."

"Help?" Frank exchanged a look with Joe.

"Tell me you didn't just say that," Joe said.

Kris gave him a _look_. "Voodoo's about possession by the saints. Josh knows the how-to, and he's not shy about it. His patron's St. Michael."

"The archangel," Frank said, and Kris nodded again. "You're saying you were _possessed?"_

"Um…I don't think so."

"You don't _think_ so?"

"I saw it," Joe said. "Around both of you, Frank. Like wings."

Around him? _He'd_ been possessed? There was a lot that Frank didn't understand about what had happened at NOLA. Both Joshua and Kris were oddly reluctant to talk about parts of it, and for Kris, who'd never been able to shut up about any spooky stuff as long as Frank and Joe had known her, that was a huge red flag that something was amiss.

But…possession? Frank scowled. After last month, it was the last word he wanted to hear.

"I think something also happened with your amp, Joe. Whatever you threw. I've noticed that your amp gets through shields somehow." Struggling with a bed rail, Kris sat back on her heels, frowning at the metal and wood. "I know Josh called on Michael, and the Powers'll act on their own, if they find someone willing. Hard to say. There was too much going on."

Frank focused on the bed frame, pounding the other side rail into slots that didn't seem big enough. He didn't believe in Voodoo. Dad had raised him and Joe as good, solid Methodist. Logical and rational, no weird occult stuff.

"Talk to Josh," Kris said. "I know the nuts-and-bolts, but not from a practicing standpoint."

Frank wasn't entirely settled with her being Pagan, either — Wiccan, she called it. It wasn't logical, it didn't make sense, and it couldn't be possible that multiple conflicting beliefs were all true. Respecting someone's religion was one thing, but possession? That was the stuff of horror movies. One's soul was already in one's body. Something else taking over was worse than rape. Thatcher had proved that.

"Tag, possession's evil," Frank said finally. "Josh didn't have any right to do that."

Kris looked at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Even if the entity's good? Michael's a saint."

"That's just the name they're calling it. It's still Voodoo, and that's based on African tribal stuff from the slaves. I know that much."

"You're falling right into the 'if it's not white and Christian, it's evil' nonsense, you realize that," Kris said.

"I've read history, Tag," Frank said.

"History written by white people." Joe raised his hands in surrender when Frank glared. "Just thought I'd mention it. Mar'd scalp you if you said something like that about the Tribes, you know."

"That's different…" Frank started…then stopped himself, sighed.

"If it helps, big brother, you'd know if you were possessed or not —"

"I knew," Joe said quietly, "with Thatcher."

"— and…um…it did save your life."

Frank scowled. "Maybe. But I still don't like it and he still didn't have a right to do it."

"It's like those Narnia books, Frank," Joe said. "Good done in another god's name is still good. If it's good, if it did good, it doesn't matter…" Joe broke off, looked away. "Never mind. I'm babbling."

"Josh can tell you exactly what he did," Kris said. "But be real careful how you phrase it. You try to tell Josh he's not Christian, I'm not responsible for the bloodshed."

"Is that how you knew about the stuff inside the warehouse?" Frank said. "Joshua's 'help'?" That would make sense, if Joshua had called in whatever-it-was to scout.

Kris was focused on the bed-frame. "No."

Frank waited for the inevitable spooky-stuff ramble, but Kris only grabbed the hammer and started pounding on the rail to force it into the headboard slots.

His face troubled, Joe was now looking from Frank to Kris; Frank clenched his jaw. He should've kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to remind Joe of that.

Maybe Kris didn't want to trigger another of Joe's flashbacks, either. Maybe that was all it was. The explanation didn't sit well, but, scowling, Frank let it go. He'd ambush her after she got back from Seattle.

They got the bed put together, wrestled the mattresses in place and got the bed made: warm quilted comforters and down pillows. Kris disappeared into her room, came back with glittering prisms to hang in the window, filling the room with rainbows.

"You and Joe," Frank said, shaking his head. "Joe almost bought that guy out. What'd you do, Tag, buy what was left?" They'd gone to the San Jose Renaissance Faire last week, and one of the booths had been filled with prisms, turning the area around it into a blinding dazzle of rainbows. Joe had claimed he was buying "a gift for Jamie", but half the prisms had ended up in Joe's own window instead.

"You liked them just as much as I did," Joe said. "You could've bought your own, but no, the moment I did, that was it. You didn't want to admit I had a good idea."

"Should I leave some books for Nancy to read?" Kris said. "There's a new one out, _Drawing Down The Moon._ It's by an NPR journalist and it's a really good overview of the whole Neo-Pagan movement. Or maybe _When God Was A Woman?"_

" _Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask,"_ Joe said.

"Nancy's probably not going to stay here," Frank said. The last thing Nancy needed was a book on feminist religion. "She has a hotel already set up. I'll borrow that NPR one, though — I'm curious."

"Big brother, when are you ever _not_ curious?"

"She's got you there," Joe said.

"Um, that was a plural _you,"_ Kris said.

"Touché," Frank said, smiling. "I'll get the space heater from our lab, though. Just in case."

"And I'll come along with you to the airport," Joe said. "Just to make sure you offer Nancy the option." Then he grinned at Kris. "That's a singular _you."_

Shaking his head, Frank went back out to the living room and paused — Mar was unloading grocery bags in the kitchen. The Center's counselor, Becca, sat at the table: a warm, middle-aged Black woman in a loose flowery wrap.

"There you are," Mar said to Frank. "We need you and Joe out here, dear."

Becca was also Frank's and Joe's counselor, helping them work through all the issues that New Orleans had caused. "Is something wrong?" Frank said, looking from Becca to Mar.

Mar sighed. "Joshua didn't tell you. No, dear, nothing's wrong. There's part of your training that we have to handle now, so we can figure out how to proceed with it."

Now it was Frank's turn to sigh. Joshua's idea of training was to throw tons of information at the brothers in as short a time as possible. Then again, considering what Frank and Joe had gotten into in less than twenty-four hours both in New Orleans and here in San Francisco, Joshua likely had the right idea.

"He did say something about it," Frank said. "Let me finish Tag's spare room and I'll drag Joe out with me."

He didn't wait for Mar's answer. Mar and Becca doing whatever this new training was? Becca was an Empath. That had caused Frank problems with the counseling sessions at first; he hadn't been comfortable with the thought of someone being able to read him, despite assurances that Association rules forbade it without his permission. But Becca was a calm, soothing presence, and Frank had finally relaxed.

And now Mar was including Becca in the training.

Frank went back through the door to his and Joe's rooms…and stopped again. Well, Tag had said little Rita and Emelio were watching the kittens.

Both children were asleep on Frank's bed, with the kittens napping on top of, beside, and between them and Mama Moggie stretched out on the pillow. Moggie's head came up when Frank stopped in the doorway, but dismissed him as _no food, no threat_ and went back to sleep.

Not that Frank minded the kids being there; he liked being a "big brother" all over again. Smiling, he went into the lab to retrieve the heater, and as he unplugged it, he heard the hall door creak. Hopefully Joe wouldn't wake the kids.

But Frank came out from the lab and froze. Not Joe — Harold Downs.

"I need the kids, if you don't mind," Downs said, scowling. "They have a doctor's appointment."

Scowling, Frank nodded towards his room. "With the kittens."

Downs snorted, then walked over to the door of Frank's room and stopped when he saw the bed. "Look, _mundane,_ we've already got a puppy. We're not about to take those cats of yours, all right?"

They weren't Frank's cats, but arguing with the pain-in-the-neck was pointless. Frank shrugged. "Fine. Feel free to tell them that." With that, he lugged the heater out to Kris's hallway and spare room.

"You're grinning," Joe said. "And it's that look you get when you're about to dump me flat on my back in _kata_."

Frank's grin got wider. "I'd tell you to get your camera and go check my bed, but you'll hear why not in just a moment."

Right on cue, the sounds of tired whining and _"But the kittens'll be lonely!"_ in both English and Spanish echoed from the living room, followed by Downs trying to herd two cranky children away from fuzzy kittens and a warm bed.

"Mister, you're evil," Kris said.

"I'll make it up to them later," Frank said.

"Boys?" Mar said from the hall door. "Becca doesn't have much time."

"Sorry, Mar," Frank sighed, and looked at Joe. "They want us out there. More training."

"Do I have time to grab a kitten?" Joe muttered, but followed Frank out…though both of them made sure Kris stayed in front of them.

Not that she didn't notice. "That won't save you. I've _got_ shields, y'know."

"You're a hostage," Joe said. "Our guarantee of good behavior."

From the kitchen, Mar laughed. "It's not that type of training. Come sit down, my sons. _Shiché'é_ , I need you as another spotter, please."

With a withering glare at the brothers, Kris opened the fridge and pulled out a couple bottles of Gatorade and set them on the table in front of Joe. Joe heaved a long-suffering sigh; Frank bit back a grin.

"Shields down, dear," Mar said to Joe. "Frank, put the preset on the table please."

Frank and Joe exchanged a look. "But I thought the whole point was for me to keep them up," Joe said, as Frank pulled the quartz out of his pocket.

"Normally, yes," Mar said. "Joshua's been focusing on mage-Gift, since that's your prime, but you need to know how to deal with other Gifts. Especially with 'paths, since they're the most common."

"Vão can cut through shields, if he's hyped enough," Kris added.

Now Frank was tensing up. He had a feeling what was coming, and he wasn't going to like it.

"It's not common," Mar said. "But yes, those Gifts can get through shields. It depends on the situation and the Gifted in question."

"I'm only here in case something goes wrong." Scowling, Becca leaned against the counter. "And I'm only allowing this because I agreed it was necessary and that you both could handle it."

"Becca has not shared anything with me," Mar said. "I'll only be using whatever I find, just as any other 'path would. So…"

That was all the warning Frank had — Joe gasped and a chair scraped across tile, but Frank was paralyzed, drowning in waves of fear and terror. He was _there_ , back in the New Orleans warehouse, seeing, feeling…

… _rope wrapped around his neck. He gagged, fighting for air, just one breath, anything…_

No — this wasn't him, it wasn't, it _couldn't be!_

… _old wrinkled hands crawled over him…young hands, a blade slicing into his arm, thick blood flowing into a cup…_

It wasn't real. He was in the kitchen…

… _jagged metal pressed into his throat, an old voice breathing into his ear…_

The table under his hands…a rough knot in the otherwise polished wood… Joe beside him — jaw clenched, Frank forced his hand to move, just enough to touch Joe's…then to grip it strongly. _There._ Frank focused on Joe's hand and held on. He was here, he'd hold, he'd never let go, ever, _ever…_

The nightmare vanished.

Released, Frank caught himself before he went face-first into the table. Becca knelt by Joe and was talking in low and soothing tones; Joe was bent over his lap. Frank sank back in his chair; he felt as if he'd been dragged through the gravel driveway facedown.

"I'm sorry, my sons," Mar said quietly. "I couldn't warn you — we had to see how strong your natural defenses are." She pushed a box of tissues towards Frank.

"That's what 'paths'll do," Kris said. "They'll go right for the jugular and blow it up in your face."

"Or worse," Mar said. "They'll manipulate you — make you rage at something petty, for example, or soothe you so you don't notice something that should set off your alarms. That is why we stress self-awareness. Awareness of yourself, of your faults and fears, and what you're thinking and feeling at all times."

"The more you know yourself," Becca said, "the harder it is for someone to manipulate you." Gently, "Joe?"

"I'm okay," Joe breathed, sagging back in the chair, eyes closed.

"You mean, like you're standing two steps behind yourself and keeping an eye on everything you do and think." Frank still hadn't let go of Joe's hand.

Mar nodded. "You both have some impressive natural defenses, I'll say that. You, especially, Frank. Do you know what you did?"

All that… _all that…_ Frank forced the memory away. "I could still feel the table. I could feel _me._ I focused on that."

"I saw more, _Shimá,"_ Kris said. "Joe was losing it, but Frank grabbed his hand and that got Joe focused. Like…um…what a clam does."

Joe breathed out a laugh and finally let go of Frank's grip; Frank sighed. One of her usual explanations that made no sense.

Mar's mouth quirked. "An oyster, _shiché'é_. A grain of sand gets inside the shell and the oyster focuses on it to make a pearl."

"An irritation, you mean," Joe said. "Yeah. I can see that."

"Big brother, you really should sit for Jamie," Kris said to Frank. "Let her paint you."

That was out of left field. Frank looked at her. "Come again?"

"What my squirrel meant," Mar said. "About the irritation. That's the key. To find that one solid thing that is _you_ and to hold on to it, no matter what. Some have a natural, strong sense of self and nothing can shake them out of it. Others…well."

"Like me, you mean," Joe said bitterly.

Mar shook her head. "Yours is a different case, dear. You have horrors that would cause anyone to crumble…but you held on, too. I'll be talking with Joshua so we can figure out how to proceed from here."

"You're healing, Joe," Becca said. "You couldn't have done this a month ago. You're stronger than you think." She gripped Joe's shoulder. "I have appointments to get to. I'll see you both on Monday, same time."


	5. Bungalow Mystery

_A/N: Heya! Thanks for the reviews & favorites: Caranath, DuffyBarkley, AlecTowser, MoonlightGypsy, Xenithia,& the guest reviewer who didn't leave a name but whom I will address now & forevermore as "Love Boat Lyric Lady". That's what you get when you don't sign up a FanFicNet account: silly nicknames. :P_

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Finally. Eight boring hours in a crowded 747 economy class, _finished,_ and the two-hour layover in Chicago hadn't helped. Nancy blinked wearily at the sun — still in the sky despite her body claiming it was much later. She still had to deal with the hotel. And get a rental car. And find something to eat. And…

"Nancy!"

She turned. Oh…thank God. Frank. Her flight-fogged brain had forgotten he was meeting her. Nancy rubbed at her eyes to clear the fog away. If he was driving, then she could put off dealing with a rental car agency until tomorrow.

Before she could say anything, Frank scooped up her carry-on bag. "You look dead on your feet."

"I am dead on my feet. A baby screamed the whole second half of the flight. And my seat mate had a _Playboy_ open the whole way. At the centerfold."

Frank winced. "Me and Joe's flight, there were two old ladies behind us — talk about a baby powder overdose. C'mon, luggage pickup's this way."

"I never would've guessed, since the signs are right _there."_

He stopped. "Nancy…"

Rubbing at her temples again, Nancy sighed. Typical, that Frank could get on her nerves that fast. "Sorry. I'm cranky. I hate commercial flights."

"Accepted. Hungry?"

"Starved. That so-called sandwich they served was fossilized." Nancy snuck glances at him as he led her past the souvenir shops and fast-food court. Frank Hardy was easy on the eyes: tall, nicely muscled, thick gold-brown hair that made her fingers itch to run through it, and the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen. But Nancy took herself in hand and told her tired brain to shut up. "I don't mean to be rude, but no fast food, please. McD's makes me sick."

Frank smiled. "I hear you. Mar's got chili on. She does the best cornbread — that's why Joe's not here. She coerced him into watching the stove. At least, Joe let her think she coerced him."

That smile sent pleasant shivers all through her. But a home-cooked meal? She hadn't expected that. "Chili?"

"Yup. I grew up on her and Aunt Gertrude's cooking. Aunt Gertrude did all the good normal food and Mar did all the weird stuff."

"Chili's not weird."

"Mar uses venison. Or bison, if she can get it. And she insists on everything home-grown, home-made, home-butchered, you name it."

Nancy smiled. That was Hannah's attitude; anything powdered, boxed, canned, or bagged: absolute blasphemy. "Bison?"

"She's Native American," Frank said, as if that explained it. "Navajo. You'll like her."

They waited at the luggage turnstiles, watching suitcases make the rounds. Nancy kept sneaking glances at Frank; hopefully he wouldn't notice.

Frank cleared his throat. "Nancy, I don't know what kind of budget you're on, but if you want, you can stay with us. Kris offered her spare room."

That was unexpected. "Kris is…?"

"A friend. Well…kid sister, actually. Mar's daughter. They were our neighbors back home. You'll meet her Sunday night."

Just what Nancy needed: an annoying kid in her business. The hotel room definitely sounded better. But Harry Hammond had asked her to find out if Frank and Joe were in trouble. Living in the same house would be a prime opportunity.

Though Hammond had also made it clear she wasn't to put herself at risk.

Nancy scowled, as if annoyed at the wait for her luggage. There couldn't be much risk in sleeping in a spare room, and it would extend the time she could use for Dad's investigation, if she wasn't worried about the client's budget.

Then again, Hammond was FBI. He wouldn't give warnings unless there was something to warn _about._

Then _again,_ despite having been out here a couple months already, Frank didn't seem to be in trouble.

 _There._ Nancy grabbed the cherry-red suitcase before Frank could. "Lead on. And chili sounds wonderful, thank you." Hesitantly, "Dad's client is a real penny-pincher — I got the cheapest hotel the travel agent could find, and it was still pretty steep. But I don't want to be any bother."

"You're not a bother at all," Frank said, smiling.

Threading through the crowds, screaming kids, and chattering tourists…it wasn't helping her jangled nerves. Nancy followed Frank out to the parking garage, shivering when the chill hit. "This is _summer?"_

Frank shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her. "Here. It took us by surprise, too."

Normally his _women-are-the-weaker-sex_ attitude would've had Nancy growling, but right now, she didn't argue. Her arms were covered in goosebumps and the wind had picked up, but Frank's jacket was warm and fleece-lined, smelling pleasantly of salt-water air and fabric softener.

Nancy had been out to California once before, though to Los Angeles, not San Francisco, and then only for that detectives convention. Here, there was so much _color_ …and the land felt open and expansive…

Frank rounded a curve of highway and onto a suspension bridge; Nancy caught a glimpse of a traffic sign. "If you're heading to Oakland, I'm definitely staying in the hotel."

"Hmmm? Oh. No. We're there — Yerba Buena." Frank nodded: an island of terraced green in the middle of the Bay. "Right next to Treasure Island."

"The naval base?" And Hammond claimed they couldn't get information?

"Fair warning, it's off-limits. That last Russian scare, we had alarms going off at all hours. They're extremely paranoid right now."

As if she was stupid enough to sneak around a military base. "Point taken," Nancy said stiffly.

His mouth set, Frank glanced at her, but said nothing as the exit turned into a road that wound up the flowering hillside and led to an old brick warehouse sprawled over a cliff on the island's south side. Nancy got out and stretched long and slow, taking in the surroundings. The view of the Bay and San Francisco was spectacular: no fog, no clouds, and the bright sun lit the water in a shattered-mirror of blinding sparkles.

Frank went over to a bin, pulled out a piece of plastic with a number on it, and set it on the windshield. "So folks know I'm still using the car. You can leave your bags here, if you want." His _I-know-better-than-you-do_ smile made her want to smack it off his face. "Until you decide you want to stay, I mean."

She was tired. She was probably over-reacting; he was just being polite. "Thank you. I will."

Then again, this _was_ Frank Hardy.

The building didn't look like much on the outside, which wasn't good. Cults didn't waste money on the rank-and-file — keeping recruits lean and poor was an effective method of control. A bit self-consciously, Nancy fingered the quartz pendant Hammond had given her, now tucked inside her turtleneck. But if Hammond was right and these people were psychic, did they really need other methods?

Nancy grit her teeth, followed Frank in.

The front walk was bordered by flowing water and shaded by trees laden with feathery flowers; it led around to double doors carved in spiral circles. Nancy took a deep breath. She was not going undercover. She was not going to let herself get drawn in…

…oh.

The front doors opened onto a huge airy room dominated by stained-glass windows that lit the space in blues, greens, and reds: geometric designs, nothing that indicated any religion. The room was filled with stout wooden tables, overstuffed couches, bookshelves, and floor-cushions, a large-screen TV against the near wall. A black Labrador Retriever napped in a puddle of sunlight, a ginger cat stretched on top of the dog. Laughing and chatting, people lounged at the various tables; children darted through the room, playing lava-floor until an adult shooed them outside.

"Nancy?"

Nancy shook herself. "Sorry." The ginger cat stretched, kneaded the dog's ribs, then sauntered over and head-butted Nancy's shin until she reached down to scratch its ears.

"It hits people like that. This is the commons…and that's Puck." Frank nodded at the cat; Puck stared up with an imperious _meow._

"Yours?" Frank didn't strike her as a cat person.

"More like _his._ He thinks he owns everybody. C'mon. Rooms are upstairs."

With that, Frank led her through the room and up a wrought-iron spiral staircase. Nancy kept looking around, taking mental notes. With all the brick and varnished wood, the place felt solid, as if nothing could move it, ever.

"A lot of people live here." Nancy glanced back towards the commons.

"Cooperative housing. Mar's company bought the place and let folks buy into it. Tons cheaper than the city. Mar and Kris co-own the section we're in."

 _Mar's company._ Odd phrasing. Most folks would have said the company name. Then again, what Frank described didn't sound like a commune or a cult, more like condos. Nancy opened her mouth to ask another question, but Frank was already through an archway at the back.

"Good timing," Joe called. "Cornbread's done."

Just inside the archway, Nancy stopped, breathing in the heady aroma of smoked corn and spice as she looked around. Whatever the Association was, it didn't keep its devotees in poverty. It was a warm, comfortable room: an afghan-covered sofa and plush armchairs in reds and golds, a pale-wood coffee table inset with rough-glazed tile, a thick area rug woven in geometric patterns of gold and brown. A half-wall blocked off the kitchen: granite counters, light wood cabinets and red glazed-tile floor. Sliding glass doors opened from the kitchen out to a deck, and three doors carved with spirals led off from the living room.

"Everyones' spaces are like this?" Nancy said.

"Not at all," Joe rasped from the kitchen.

Nancy halted. Joe was good-looking, just like his brother, though built slender with longer hair brushing his shoulders…but…but…

"You should see Jamie's," Joe was saying. "Paint everywhere and it always stinks of turpentine, I swear."

"You don't seem to mind," Frank said.

Nancy only stood paralyzed, horrified.

… _scars…_

"It's my noble sacrifice to support the arts." Joe sighed. "It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it."

Joe's neck was ringed in dark-red scars, his left hand twisted and deformed, and he used a crutch, limping as if uncertain his feet would support him. Worse, his flannel shirt was unbuttoned just enough for Nancy to see waxy, wrinkled skin…

"My God, Joe, what _happened?"_ Nancy blurted.

He froze — and Frank seized Nancy's arm and steered her roughly through one of the spiral-carved doors.

"That was rude," Frank snapped as the door swung shut behind them.

Nancy jerked free. "How did you _think_ I was going to react?" How _dare_ Frank get angry — oh God, had this place done that to Joe? "I haven't seen you guys in months!"

Closing his eyes, Frank breathed out, looking worn and much older. "Sorry. I should've warned you. Room's here." With that, he pushed open a door on the right.

" _Frank Hardy…"_

"Do you want to see the room or not?"

Was this what Hammond had meant? If so, Nancy wouldn't just blow the whistle to the FBI, but to Fenton Hardy — let Frank try stonewalling his father!

"I can't ignore it, Frank." Nancy struggled to keep her tone reasonable. "Joe's your _brother. What happened?"_

Frank still said nothing.

Fine, abandon subtlety. "Are you guys in trouble?"

The hall door opened. "You two aren't being quiet, you know," Joe rasped. "Nan, put your stuff up and come on out. Frank's just protecting his Little Brother's privacy, as usual."

"Joe," Frank said.

"Someone has to explain," Joe said. "It wasn't fair for you to drop it on her like that."

In the face of Joe's quiet, Nancy had to apologize. She had been rude. To him, anyway. "Joe, I'm sorry. I didn't mean —"

"It's okay. Just tell Frank you'll stay so he gets his good mood back." Joe limped back out, the door shutting behind him.

The room. Right. As for Frank — well, he deserved the rudeness. Not looking at Frank, Nancy stepped around him.

 _Rainbows._

The windows were loaded with prisms glittering in the sun and casting hundreds of tiny rainbows all over the walls and floor. _"Wow…_ "

"Huh," Frank said, "I guess I owe Joe a pizza."

"What?"

"He said you'd love the rainbows. I thought it'd be too garish."

That was a forced topic change if Nancy had ever heard one. She went over to the window to touch one of the prisms, smiling as the rainbows danced over the walls. The rest of the room: a four-poster bed covered in pillows and thick comforters, a space heater. A small basket filled with chocolate bars & candies sat on top of the dresser. A butcher-block nightstand with an alarm clock and a green-ceramic lamp. Two bookshelves, one mostly empty, the other stuffed with bath towels, washcloths, spare linens and blankets. Another basket rested on top of the towels: soap, tissues, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a hair dryer.

Other than the prisms, the room was spare, spartan, no decoration. The effect was soothing and calm.

"Kris just finished clearing it out today," Frank said from the doorway. "So it's a little bare. It was a storage room."

"It's perfect." Hammond's warnings aside, this was definitely better than a cheap hotel downtown. And if she were staying here, Frank and Joe would be more likely to drop their guard. "I'll be happy to stay here. If you're not about to rescind the invitation, I mean."

"It's okay. I over-reacted. I forgot how much…" Frank fell silent. "I'll go get your luggage."

Nancy started to say she was perfectly capable of getting it, but caught herself. Give him time to calm down. "I'll need a ride tomorrow, though, so I can rent a car."

"You won't need it. Public transport's real good — me and Joe haven't needed cars ourselves. It's faster to take the Muni."

Nancy didn't want to be at the mercy of the bus line if she needed to leave in a hurry. "I'll stick with a rental, thanks."

Frank nodded. "Be back in a few. Oh…that door," he pointed, "is Kris's. She's a real bear for privacy, just so you know."

An obvious warning: _don't snoop._ Not that she would, yet. After Frank left, Nancy pushed open the third door: bathroom. More old brick, red-glazed ceramic tile on the floor, though the shower floor was polished river-stone. Plastic shelving held other toiletries and first aid supplies.

A folded note on the shelving, addressed to her? Nancy picked it up. Careful, heavy handwriting:

 _Hey Nancy, feel free to use anything in the bathroom. I'll be back Sunday night. Don't let Frank drive you nuts. Kris_

Interesting.

Nancy decided to take advantage of the shower later. Right now, food took definite precedence. She went back out to the living room — Joe sat at the kitchen table, talking to an older, wiry woman with a weathered dried-apple face and grey-streaked black hair.

The woman smiled at Nancy. "Hello, dear. Room okay?"

"Nancy, this is Maria Mountainhawk," Joe rasped.

"Call me Mar," Mar said. "Everyone does."

Nancy smiled her thanks. She liked Mar's face; it looked like a face that smiled a lot. But cults operated like that. They were always so friendly, until you tried to leave. "Frank said the prisms were your idea," Nancy said to Joe, looking him in the face and trying to ignore his scars. "Thank you."

"That means pizza tomorrow, his treat. Make sure you abuse that information." Joe grinned. "Tell him 'Tony's' and don't back down."

"Chili?" Mar said. "I've got shredded cheddar to top it, and the cornbread's fresh."

For so-called psychics, this place seemed…well…normal. Homey. Nancy accepted a bowl and dished out a good helping of chili; the cheddar was real white cheddar, not the dyed-yellow stuff. The cornbread: not baked, but pan-fried, steaming in a cast-iron skillet.

Nancy cut a decent slice — the butter looked fresh-made, too. "I thought Hannah was the only one to make cornbread like this any more. Our housekeeper," she explained to Mar. "If it's not grown on some little family farm outside Poughkeepsie and cooked from scratch, she won't have it on the table."

"Should've brought her along." Joe scooped out his own bowl and loaded it with cheddar.

"Maybe you can explain that to my daughter when she gets back," Mar said to Nancy. "How she _ever_ developed a taste for that awful box macaroni and cheese…"

"Don't look at us," Joe said, then sobered. "Nancy, look…"

"I'm sorry," Nancy said, before it could get too embarrassing for either of them. "I shouldn't have reacted like that."

"No, you should have. It shows you're human. Really human, I mean, not someone faking it." Joe dropped his gaze to the table. "Not like there was any way you could've known."

 _Really human?_ That was odd phrasing.

But Joe's next words shocked her. "Did you hear about the serial killer in New Orleans?"

"The Mardi Gras killer?" Nancy had seen the story on the news; Bess and George had called her from New Orleans after the story had broken. But what did that have to do with Joe?

"I was there. I… _God._ " Eyes closed, Joe stopped, hands clenched.

Mar laid a hand on Joe's shoulder. "My company provides security services," Mar said. "Karma was supposed to play Mardi Gras, and they'd hired us for personal security. What we didn't know was that the killer had them targeted."

"That wasn't on the news," Nancy said. "I mean, my friends were down there, and they said Karma cancelled the show, but nothing like that."

"The band didn't want a media circus. They got grabbed. And Joe and Frank knew it, because my daughter was on the team, and they'd run into her." Mar smiled. "Keeping Joe away from a major music act when their little tagalong had an 'in'…that would've required an act of God, I'm afraid."

"No kidding," Joe breathed out, smiling a little. "At least."

"And keeping them out of a mystery," Mar said, "…well…I suspect you know how impossible that is."

Nancy knew where this was going, but still smiled. "Yeah, I do." She leveled her gaze on Joe. " _Dracula."_

That got a wider, rueful smile from Joe. "Hey, it was Dad's case."

"He invited _me_ , not you. _Amateurs."_ What was it with these Hardys and their smiles? Joe was as bad as his brother that way.

"Your dad pays you how much, Nancy?" Frank said from the archway, as he set down her luggage.

" _Children,"_ Mar said.

"Anyway…" Joe took a deep breath, "me and Frank had a lead. We thought we knew where the band was being held. We were scouting it out…and I got caught." Joe stopped again, gaze back on the table.

Coming into the kitchen, Frank laid his hand on Joe's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Nancy said. Pathetic, useless thing to say. The news coverage of the bodies had been ugly.

"Sheer dumb luck I lived," Joe said. "That's all it was."

"No, _ché."_ Someone else came through the archway and into the kitchen: a lean Black man with short dreads, dressed in teal jeans and a tie-dyed _dashiki_. "It was sheer guts on your part and brains and guts on your brother's. Nothing dumb about it. Hello, darlin'," the man held his hand out for Nancy to shake, "Joshua Thomas. Mar's chili's been driving the place crazy all day. I saw Frank carrying that lovely suitcase, so I figured you were in and the chili up for grabs."

"Joshua heads up the bodyguard teams," Mar said, passing two more bowls over.

"George said the Karma show got canceled because of a car wreck. But you really mean…" Nancy caught herself, blushed. "Sorry. I don't mean to be nosy."

" _Ché_ , I suspect 'nosy' is your ground state, just like these two." Joshua nodded at Frank and Joe. "I can't wait to hear your side of the tales they've told us."

Frank rolled his eyes. "We told 'em just like it happened."

"Care to bet a pizza, _ché?"_

"Done," Frank said.

"Make it two," Nancy said to Joshua. "Shrimp and bacon."

"I like her already," Joshua said, to no one in particular. Then, to Frank, "With extra bacon, then."

Frank glared at Nancy. "That's fixing the bet."

"What," Nancy said innocently, and Joe laughed, "you think I will tell it differently?"

"Whatever your friends heard, the reality's worse," Mar said to Nancy. "But Karma is on tour again."

"That's where Kris is," Frank said. "She's at their shows in Seattle."

"I wish I'd known you had an in like that. I would've brought Bess along. So Kris works security for Karma, then?" If so, Nancy looked forward to meeting her — women in that field were rare.

"Just a weekend jaunt," Joshua said. "We've got a different team up there."

"She'll be drooling over Vão and Rafe," Joe said.

"I really should've brought Bess," Nancy said. "That's all I hear from her, how cute Vão Carvalo is."

That got a round of snorts from the guys; Mar's mouth quirked. "It would've cured her of that illusion, I'd say," Mar said.

"Well, he seems handsome, if you like that type," Nancy said.

"Depends what you call handsome, _ché,_ " Joshua said. "Some of it's the whole 'rock star' thing. He's not _bad,_ just…well…he's the same as any other swelled-head rock star."

"Which head are you talking about?" Joe said; Frank choked.

"Arrogant, you mean," Nancy said. "Thinks he knows everything and women worship the ground he walks on."

"You are describing Vão, right?" Joe said.

"Y'know, Handsome," Joshua said, as Frank opened his mouth, "I'm surprised at you. You've been here all of five minutes, and you haven't offered to show Nancy your roommates."

That had the sound of _get-her-out-of-here_ - _a-bit,_ though Nancy had no clue why. "Roommates?"

"Oh no," Joe said suddenly. "That cat's psychic, I swear. Frank…"

Nancy turned. The ginger cat, Puck, had come sauntering into the suite and over to one of the spiral-carved doors, scratching at the space underneath it.

"He doesn't like the babies." Frank picked Puck up and deposited him into Joe's lap; Puck mrrowled in protest. "Here. You hold him. Nan, c'mon, before he tries to run through the door."

Babies? Roommates? Distraction or not, Nancy had to admit she was curious. She pushed to her feet and followed. Knowing Frank, it wouldn't be boring, anyway…


	6. Flickering Torch

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews & favorites: DuffyBarkley, Xenitha, SunshineInTheGraySky, LBLL, Leyapearl, AlecTowser & Caranath! & Duffy, if your pizza consumption doubles during one of my tales, My Job Here Is Done. *slides the kickbacks from Figlio's into the bank* ;)  
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"That was too obvious, Josh," Joe said, after making sure their door had shut behind Nancy. He wrapped his arms around Puck and bent over his knees to force the ginger monster to lay down on his lap. Puck was normally a mellow cat, but he had it in for the kittens. "You were trying to get her out of the room, and I'm sure she knew that."

"I know, _ché,"_ Joshua sighed. "But I didn't come up here for the chili."

"I called him up here." Mar was a strong 'path, strong enough to mind-talk even to those who weren't. "Joe, dear, is Nancy Gifted?"

Joe choked on a mouthful of soda. _That_ was the last thing he could possibly have expected. Someone like Nancy — someone who could give Frank lessons in _everything-has-to-make-sense — Gifted?_

"Well, you look like you've just been socked with a two-by-four," Joshua said. "Wonderful. Even more little complications. _Ché,_ she's shielded."

" _Shielded? Nancy?"_ Which implied not only Gifted, but _trained._

"Joe," Mar said softly, warning.

From back towards their rooms, there was a muffled squeal of "Oh, how _cute!"_ The kittens had claimed another victim.

"She can't be. She would've seen what I was, like Kris did. She never said…" Joe cut himself off; he was babbling. He breathed out, got control of himself…then started to laugh. "Oh man. Frank's gonna have a fit."

"No, _ché,_ " Joshua said. "She's not shielded like us, or even like Mar. I don't think it's hers. It has that feel, but I didn't want to test it and possibly freak her, so I can't be one-hundred-percent."

Puck squirmed, trying to wiggle out of Joe's arms; Joe tightened his grip. "You're saying someone else shielded her."

Joshua nodded. "A pre-set, like I gave your brother."

Pre-sets were stones that had been infused with magic, used to protect those who couldn't shield themselves (like Frank) or whose own protections needed bolstering. Joe couldn't do pre-sets yet, though Joshua kept assuring him he'd be able to, once Joe got his own shielding down.

"Hers are very good, whoever did them," Mar said. "Normally I pick up something through shields, even if it's just a sense of _someone's-there_. But from her, there's nothing."

"Maybe she's just a quiet thinker like Frank — _ow!_ " Jaw clenched, Joe removed Puck's claws from his thigh. "Cat, I need these legs!"

Mar shook her head. "I get a sense of presence from your brother, even through Josh's pre-set."

"Let him go, _ché."_ Joshua nodded at Puck. "I'll try an aversion on him."

Mar snorted. "Like the last twenty or so you've tried? And whose office does he keep settling in?"

"Got me," Joshua said; Puck leaped off Joe's lap and sat at Joshua's feet, washing himself. "I can't think of anyone that matches that description."

"Puck's loose," Joe called, hearing the squeak of the door hinges. Puck made a dash, but there was a thump and a yowl. Frank scooped the cat up firmly in his arms and dumped him outside the archway.

"Can't you control a cat for five minutes?" Frank said to Joe.

"You try," Joe said. "He sharpens those daggers especially for me, I swear."

"Six adorable little kittens," Nancy said, grinning. "They were nursing, just little balls of fluff. I want to take them all home. Or can I just trade rooms with you for the week, Frank?"

Joe and Frank exchanged grins. "Nancy, you have no idea how weird it is to hear you talking like a girl," Joe said.

Girls had to have special classes in that _stop-being-such-a-guy_ face. "There's something wrong with that?"

"Ignore him," Frank said to her. "He's forgetting his own reaction to them. And you wouldn't think they were so cute if you had to keep cleaning up after them. Moggie was sick again."

"Baking soda," Mar said. "Mix it with hydrogen peroxide and a bit of dish soap and scrub the floor with it. And ask Trevor tomorrow to take a look at her."

Frank sighed.

"It's much more fun to complain." Joe rested his elbows on the table as if tired, and let his eyes relax to look Nancy over. Shielded, definitely, though he wasn't sure what Joshua meant by it feeling like a pre-set. He reached out tentatively, as he did when checking the wards. Nancy's shields had a plastic, impersonal feel.

"Joe?" Nancy said.

Joe shook himself. "Sorry. Zoned out there for a moment." Nancy, Gifted. Or someone was shielding her. Who…and _why?_

"I've got to scoot," Joshua was saying, but he gave Joe a brief nod. "Friend of mine has a show opening at the Sandra Lee tonight and Godzilla wants to go. I'm surprised Jamie's not dragging you there, _ché."_

Best not to bring the shields up until he had a chance to talk it over with Frank. "She still might," Joe said.

"Godzilla?" Nancy said, then yawned. "Sorry."

"I'll explain later," Frank said, staring both Joe and Joshua down when they opened their mouths.

"I want to be there when you do, Handsome," Joshua said. "Don't you dare deny me that pleasure."

Nancy looked confused. Joe wasn't sure he wanted to be around for the explanation. Her father, Carson, was a good man, but an old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool conservative, and Nancy took after him in a lot of ways — no, Frank could have the pleasure of that explanation all to himself.

"You're jet-lagged, dear," Mar said to Nancy, as Joshua left. "You don't need to stay up to be polite. Go sleep it off."

Shaking her head, Nancy stood up to get another slice of cornbread. "Sooner I force myself to adjust, the better. I've got work to do out here. Is there anything I should know about this place? What to avoid?"

"Use common politeness, that's all," Mar said. "Most of the suites are set up like this one — treat them like you would someone's house. There's a few offices on the lower floor, but those are clearly marked."

"Offices?"

"For Mar's company," Frank said. "They're the property managers."

"I'm technically retired," Mar corrected. "Anyway, we use some of the rooms on the lower floor as offices. Cheaper than downtown."

"You've mentioned this company a few times," Nancy said. "Is it something you own, Mar?"

That sounded like a fishing expedition if Joe had ever heard one, but Mar only smiled. "Oh, no," Mar said. "The Association for Human Research and Development. That's the overall parent company."

Joe just happened to be looking at Nancy and caught an odd expression, quickly smoothed over. Behind Nancy, Frank had paused, eyeing her.

"The security thing I mentioned — AHRD Security — is one of the children." Mar's smile widened to an impish grin. "A fully licensed private investigator firm, I might add."

Again, that odd expression. Joe didn't know Nancy that well, but he could see the questions building up. "Retired, right," Joe said to Mar. "Says the woman who takes on all of San Francisco for karate lessons three times a week."

"That's charity work, dear," Mar said.

"Karate?" Nancy said.

"She's a black belt," Joe said, grinning. "Master of the martial arts —"

"Black belt's not a master, Joe," Frank said. "It just means you're no longer a beginner. Mar's a 4th _dan_ black belt, Nan."

"Translation," Joe said to Nancy, _"run."_

"The boys said you know judo," Mar said to Nancy. "Do you still practice?"

"When I can," Nancy said, looking from Joe to Frank and back.

"Frank's happy to hear that," Joe said.

"Joe," Frank said

"We have open self-defense sessions every morning around ten for all our residents, if you wish to join in," Mar said. "I don't think Drake knows judo specifically, but he can at least keep you in practice."

"I go to those, Nancy," Joe said, watching her. "Part of my physical therapy. And Frank helps Drake with the kids. He'll whip you into shape. Or something."

" _Joe…"_

"Well, you do." Joe grinned at his brother. "Nancy needs some incentive to keep you flipping for her."

Now Nancy grinned, too. "I've learned a bit more since then. I'm really good at assisting people into the nearest wall."

"Wonderful," Frank said sourly. "Nancy, would you like a tour of the island? The sunshine'll help you stay awake."

"That would be lovely." Nancy got up, rinsed her bowl out and put it in the dishwasher. "Thank you."

"Take a camera," Joe advised her. "If you sweet-talk the security up at the Tower, you get the best view of the Bay from the officers' club up there."

Nancy eyed him a moment; it was such an odd look that Joe wondered what he'd said. "I should thank you, too, Mar," Nancy said. "For opening your home to a stranger."

"You're welcome, dear," Mar said. "I have a feeling you'll liven things up around here for the boys."

"We don't need your help with the jinx, you know," Joe said, and Mar laughed.

But Joe didn't move, as Frank and Nancy walked out. Mar went around the kitchen, putting the chili away and doing the remaining clean-up. "You need to be more subtle when you check someone," Mar said, as she handed Joe a dish towel. "But you covered yourself well."

Joe got up to help. "She is shielded, Mar. Mage-shields, too. Josh's right. They're not hers. They felt…well…impersonal. Like I was getting looked-down-the-nose-at by Puck. Yes, you, you monster." The ginger cat had come back in and hopped up in Joe's chair to bat at the dish towel.

Mar smiled. "That's how my squirrel describes Josh's pre-sets. As if she's getting called 'amateur' by Gandalf."

"Well, that could just be Nancy. Something about Frank just sets that attitude off with her."

Mar raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, I'm just calling it like I see it." Puck was batting at Joe's crutch; Joe gave in and rubbed the cat's head, right behind the ears. "There's something else. When you told her about the Association, she looked like she knew it. Like she'd heard it before." Joe thought a moment. "But she didn't say anything. If she was with us, I would've expected some reaction, especially over me and Frank."

Mar nodded. "Mind, I don't know everyone. But someone like her, with a father as hers, she'd be known. Eli would know of her, at least."

"But if she's not Gifted and someone else did her shields…" Joe sighed. His head hurt. "So that means someone else out there knows about the Association, and told her about us. Wonderful."

"There's nothing wrong with knowing," Mar said.

Joe looked up.

"My son, I'm going to tell you what I told your little tagalong, back when you and Frank were finally figuring out there was something going on." Calm and serene; nothing ever rattled Mar. "With Nancy, you have three choices. You can lie, with all that would entail. You can keep your mouth shut. Or you tell her the truth. The Association is not top-secret. We're never that. It's all down to your choice, and your trust."

"Trusting Nancy isn't the problem."

Mar nodded again. "The rules we run on, dear. Be aware of your choice. But right along with that is that there's no such thing as coincidence."

Joe met her gaze. "That's what I'm afraid of."


	7. Melted Coins

_A/N: Yeah, an extra chapter as a Christmas Gift! Happy Twelfth Night/Epiphany (marking the end of the 12 Days of Christmas for Western Christian Churches), Christmas (Greek Orthodox, Ukraine, Armenian Apostolic), & Carnival (most of Europe from now until Shrove Tuesday)! Thanks to Caranath, Leyapearl, Rangerlyn, DuffyBarkley, The Guest Reviewer Only Known As "J", Xenitha, & MoonlightGypsy for the reviews! Next posting will be back on the usual Every Other Day schedule (Friday)._

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Scowling, Frank listened to his brother. Nancy had gone to bed, after looking in on the kittens "just to make sure they're all right for the night". To his surprise, Moggie had not only allowed Nancy to pet them, but had picked up one by the scruff (a smokey gray with fur like a cloud) and deposited the kitten in Nancy's lap. Watching Nancy — tough-minded, independent, _I-can-do-anything-men-can-do_ Nancy — cuddle the little fur-ball had Frank biting back a smile. Women…

Okay, be fair. He wasn't immune, either. Moggie had done the same thing to both him and Joe over the past week, and Frank couldn't get over how tiny the little ones were. Two of them fit easily in his palm.

Of course, having most of the women in the Center visiting his room to coo over the kittens wasn't bad, either.

But now he and Joe were talking in his room — after cleaning up three more patches of cat vomit — and Frank was wishing he'd never heard of the whole psychic thing, just so he could keep telling Joe "you're imagining things".

Nancy, _shielded_ , with those shields potentially not hers: that was more headache than Frank wanted to deal with. Nancy brought enough trouble on her own. She did not need help.

"So," Joe said finally, "what do you want to do?"

Frank sighed. "I don't know. It all hinges on who and why. She either doesn't want to be read or she's afraid she'll get attacked. Or someone else is afraid for her."

"Either way implies she's doing something that could result in that." Joe sighed. "Wonderful."

"She's out here for her father. Something her father took on that has a bigger scope than what they initially thought. That's what she said."

"So…what…Carson's investigating the Association?" Joe shook his head. "To steal your line, that makes no sense."

The tuxedo kitten in Frank's lap meeped, kneading at Frank's legs until it found another comfortable position. Frank stroked it absently, thinking; Joe was right. It didn't make any sense at all.

"Say you're Carson," Joe said. "Someone comes up to you and says, hey, there's these people we want you to look into, but we need to work some magic on your daughter to protect her — what would your reaction be?"

"I'd throw them out as lunatics." Carson was the most no-nonsense person Frank had ever met, up to and including Dad.

"Right. So since she's here and obviously had the magic worked on her or whatever…that means it's someone that Carson _couldn't_ throw out of his office."

"Someone he had to take seriously, you mean." Frank thought that over. "Problem, though. She couldn't have known we're part of the Association. Dad doesn't know…" Frank stopped.

"Unless whoever approached Carson did…" From his expression, Joe had the same thought.

"Hammond," Frank said. Harry Hammond was Dad's FBI contact, known for his take-downs of subversive groups. He was the only person who'd suspected the brothers had been recruited by the Association.

Hammond had to know that Dad took cases on spec with Carson — Frank had no doubt that the feds kept tabs on Dad, due to Dad's own government work. It was the only connection that made sense.

"There's another possibility," Joe said. "Like Kris and those bracelets. You didn't know they had magic on them. Her note was kind of vague, and I didn't think to tell you."

"You mean, someone gifted her with something, and she doesn't have a clue it's magic."

"Right. Totally innocent." Joe sighed. "We can hope, anyway."

"Innocent as far as we're concerned, you mean. I don't like the idea of someone sending Nancy magic and not telling her." But Frank mulled that over. "I hate to say it: there's no such thing as coincidence."

"And this is Nancy we're talking about." Joe rubbed at his temples. "Okay. I say we let Nancy make all the moves. Show her everything and be totally up front with her."

"Well, we've got nothing to hide."

"You got it. She'll be certain we're hiding _something."_ Joe settled back, grinning. "We just forget to mention the Gifts. Let's see how long it takes before she cracks."

"Brother, you're evil." Frank tickled the kitten's belly. Meeping, the fur-ball batted at his finger. Okay, he was a guy, he wasn't supposed to be affected by such things, but the kitten was _cute…_

"Best part is," Joe said, "everyone here'll play along without knowing they're playing along."

It was something that'd driven Frank's suspicions sky-high at first: most folks here had that same sincere _nothing-to-hide_ attitude. It'd taken days before he'd realized it wasn't game-playing: they _were_ being up-front with him. It was the attitude of the Association as a whole: honest, open, sincere. It had driven his suspicious detective-side _nuts._

… _cute_ until the little monster sank its needle-claws into Frank's finger. _"Ow!"_

The kitten didn't know any better. It was just a baby. Jaw clenched, Frank unhooked the tiny claws from his skin — it promptly wrapped its forepaws around his fingers and started gnawing — then scooped the kitten up and deposited it back with Moggie.

Joe snagged the bandages and antiseptic off Frank's desk and tossed them over. "When Tag gets back, maybe she'll let you move them into her room. She's got the bigger space."

"Not with her schedule. We've got the free time. She doesn't." Frank smiled. "If it gets too bad, I'll bribe Jamie."

"You always find the bright side," Joe said.

The next day started normal enough — well, normal as anything ever was around the Center. Noah had taken over Joe's training, taking the _tai chi_ and mixing it with an odd fighting-style that involved dance and rhythm, and after seeing Noah destroy a punching bag with a single crouched-kick, Frank wasn't about to protest. Drake didn't make any comments about Nancy, only tested her with various strike-block-strike drills, then added her to an intermediate group working in a mix of martial art styles.

Under Drake's supervision, Frank worked with the kids — attitude and awareness, how to get away from attackers and stay out of trouble before they got into it. Frank had finally earned his initial black belt ranking in karate, and shortly after that, Drake had not only shifted Frank to full _krav maga_ training, but also asked Frank to be his assistant for the open sessions.

But Frank kept a weather-eye on Nancy. She was paying close attention to Drake demonstrating how to break choke-holds; she didn't have any problem either flipping or being flipped. Frank had to admit, he liked watching her: long hair tied back in a ponytail, loose sweats that still hugged her curves…

From across the floor, Joe caught Frank's eye…and grinned.

Frank shook himself, then paired the kids off to run drills as Drake came over to watch. Once the kids were busy, Frank backed up until he stood next to Drake and waited.

"Shame she's not one of us," Drake said in a low voice. "She'd give you a run for the money."

Frank didn't need to be a 'path to know who _she_ was. "Just keep that idea to yourself."

"Uh-huh," Drake said.

Afterwards, Frank drove Nancy to the rental car place and gave her directions back to the Center, along with the address and the suite's phone number. Jet-lagging or not, Nancy was determined to start whatever work she was doing for her father.

So maybe Carson _wasn't_ investigating the Association. No need for a rental car or to run all over the City, when the Center was right there, after all. Frank thought that over during the drive back; Joe was waiting outside as Frank pulled in to the gravel driveway.

"Interesting thing about those torched buildings," Joe said as he slid into the front seat. He had a backpack with him. "All five are owned by the Rathbone Foundation."

"Huh," Frank said. Three times, conspiracy… "You told Matt?"

"Right before you showed up. He said they hadn't thought to look at the owners, with so many businesses involved."

"All five, same owner." Frank stared out the window. "That puts a different slant on it."

"You mean, maybe the Rathbone Foundation's behind it. Insurance fraud."

"That makes no sense. They'd earn more in rent every year than a one-time insurance payment. They'd get tons more by selling the buildings, for that matter."

"Maybe a former employee with a bone to pick," Joe said. "The main businesses in each building were Rathbone's, too. Or it's just coincidence." He rolled his eyes at Frank's look. "Okay, okay, just thought I'd mention it. All five buildings were big targets in prime locations. That might be all the arsonist was thinking of."

"Maybe." Frank didn't believe it, though. He started to back out of the driveway. "Where to? And what's in the bag?"

"I'm stealing a page from Tag's book. And the Masters & Roberts Tower at Union Square. That was the first one torched."

Frank looked at him, then pulled the car back to the parking area. "We're taking the Muni. You're nuts if you think I'm taking a car anywhere _near_ Union Square."

"Sadist. Making your crippled little brother carry this heavy pack all over the city on hard, cold pavement…"

"Watch it, or I'll add six kittens to it."

"Oh, would you? I'd have half the women in the Center begging to help before I got halfway down the stairs."

"Better not let Jamie hear you say that."

"She'd head the mob." Joe slung the backpack over his shoulder. "Lead on, Sherlock."

The day was clear, the Muni mostly quiet and empty, though it took longer than usual for them to get to Union Square — the Muni had been re-routed for several blocks in all directions. A good third of the Square was cordoned off, with temporary construction fencing erected around the burned building. Frank looked out across the green center and the homeless folks camped there. No one he knew, though — talking to street-level witnesses would've given him and Joe an excuse to treat those folks to a decent meal without injuring their pride.

That had been another shock, that the Blades didn't limit their street-knowledge to the runaway shelter. The first time Joshua had taken the brothers around the streets had been embarrassing, eye-opening, and shaming…

The Masters & Roberts tower was a mess. The front half and top levels were charred, with windows shattered and blown out. The rear and bottom third looked deceptively untouched, but Frank knew better.

"We need to go in," Joe said. "We're not going to learn anything out here."

"I know," Frank said; Joe saying they needed to go exploring somewhere dangerous and possibly illegal? Amazing, the world hadn't ended. "Did you happen to learn where the Rathbone businesses were in this building?"

"Whether the fires targeted those, you mean." Joe shook his head. "No clue. The file said three breakout points — the 31st, 25th, and the 20th. Arsonist probably started from the highest and worked down. Safety first, after all."

Frank studied the fenced-in area with its construction workers clearing debris, then wandered over to one of the chained sections. Wouldn't be too hard to pick the lock, but crossing through the area and getting in the building without being seen?

"Here." Joe handed him the lock-picks.

"We're kind of noticeable out here, you realize that," Frank said.

"Ye of little faith. I'll handle it." Bracing himself with the crutch, Joe settled against the fence and closed his eyes.

Frank _felt_ the energy brush over him, like spiderweb against his skin, and he fought the urge to wipe it off. There wasn't anything there…that he could see, anyway.

"Tag's mouse-trick." Joe's gaze was still on the fence; he sounded distracted and out-of-breath. "They won't pay attention if we're careful not to draw it."

Frank eyed the construction workers, who had a straight line-of-sight to the brothers: none of them paid any attention. "You're pretty handy for a younger brother. When'd you learn to do that?"

"Right before Tag left. I figured it'd be handy for us junior detectives." Joe nodded at the lock. "Work fast. I can't hold it forever."

Frank bit back a smile as he worked. One of his fears had been that the Gifts would make detective work boring. He loved mysteries and puzzles. Getting any solution handed to him on a magical silver platter — he would never had joined the Blades if that'd been the case. But Joshua had set him straight: " _Ché,_ the bad guys have Gifts, too, and that includes being too smart for their own good. A Gift won't save you from stupidity."

The mouse-trick was a good example: if Frank and Joe did anything to draw attention, it wouldn't just be "trick over". They'd also have a heap of trouble dumped on their heads, because they'd be right in the middle of angry people demanding to know how they'd gotten there.

Well, that added a definite kick of adrenaline to all this.

The lock popped open, and Frank slipped the picks into his own pocket. He pulled the chain-fence section open just enough for him and Joe to get through, then shut it, looped the chain through the metal, but pocketed the lock — for now. After he and Joe left, he'd re-lock the chain.

The ground was littered with scorched debris and concrete chunks; they took their time so Joe wouldn't stumble. Finally they made it into the building through one of the side doors and to a back corner screened by a row of huge potted plants. The lobby was mostly intact, save for the thick stench of water-logged ash and smoke.

"Let me try from here," Joe murmured, as Frank helped him to sit. "I don't want to be here any longer than we have to."

"You and me both," Frank said.

Breathing out heavily, Joe closed his eyes. Frank kept watch; he had to be ready to do some fast talking if someone saw through the magic. Men glanced in their direction, but looked away without raising a shout or even a "What are you doing here?" They might be assuming that if Frank and Joe were in here, they'd already been dealt with, but it was still unnerving — though definitely useful. Frank would encourage Joe to keep this trick in practice.

Joe shook himself, looked up. "I can't get a good fix down here. But something's up there."

"We need to go upstairs, then." Sneaking upstairs in a burnt-out ruin, with investigators and construction workers poking around and on the alert? Frank tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Joe's mouth quirked. "Don't sound so disappointed."

They were close to one of the stairwells. The building had two, with the other nearer the elevators and in near-constant use by the workers. Hopefully that didn't mean this one was ruined.

This time, Frank took the backpack. Sneaking around a ruined building meant Joe would need all the balance he had, and being weighed down by a pack wouldn't help. Frank slipped through the stairwell door last and took care to shut it, leaving them in near-total darkness. "Let the mouse-trick go," Frank ordered. "I won't have you fainting on the stairs."

"Yes, Mother." There was a smile in Joe's voice. "There's a flashlight in the bag."

Frank dug through plastic bags of salt and herbs, small bottles, silk cloth — he'd ask Joe about all this stuff later — found the flashlight, and shone it up the stairs. They seemed solid enough, but Frank wasn't taking chances. He took the lead, testing each stair before settling his weight. "Twentieth floor."

"Yeah." Resignation sighed through Joe's voice. "Call it working off dinner in advance. You taking Nancy out to Burn the Tail tonight?"

The thought of Nancy confronting sushi for the first time…Frank smiled. "If I do, you and Jamie can join us."

"Deal. I'll even foot the bill if you sneak baby octopus onto Nancy's plate."

"Tempura squid," Frank countered. "With extra wiggly tentacle parts."

"For that, I'll pay for Josh to come along." Joe gazed up the stairwell. "God, we're evil."

After a long, tense climb, Frank cracked the stairwell door open on the 20th floor; the thick smoke stench stuck to the back of his throat and clogged his nose. The stairwell had shown char and smoke damage for ten floors prior, but had still been solid. Daylight flooded in through the door, and for a moment, the brothers waited, watching the corridor and listening for movement.

"Far end." Joe cracked another smile. "Naturally."

Frank had known that from studying the files last night, but Joe? "Oh?"

"I read the paperwork, too, y'know. The rooms were marked — janitors' closets."

That was disappointing. Frank had been expecting some weird magic reason, if only to rib Joe about it.

Joe slanted a glance at him. "And I feel a weird mystical pull. Feel better now?"

"Lots. Now I can tell you you're imagining things and convince you that we need to go all the way to 31st floor."

"Nice try." Joe closed his eyes and fell silent for a moment. "Something's off above us, too. But this is closer, and those upper levels are probably tons worse."

"No argument here." Frank tested the floor in front of the door. "This part's okay. Stay behind me."

Frank eased forward, step by cautious step. Parts of the floor had crumbled away to ash and char, and getting both himself and Joe across the gaps stretched his nerves to breaking point. But Frank didn't care — ruined buildings always had a risk to them. That was part of the thrill.

Biting his lip, Joe touched the scorched doors as they moved through the ruined corridors, then stopped. "Here."

It was a small tiled room, ash and char covering the blackened floor to several inches deep. Frank eased in — the floor was mostly solid — so he saw it first. "Joe."

Joe peered in. "What in the world…?"

For a long moment, they stared at the far corner — the un-scorched, un-charred, un-burnt corner. Something lay in the center of that un-burnt space.

Using his crutch for balance, Joe went over to it and knelt as Frank came up behind him. A doll, creepily life-like with painted-on eyes, gray hair glued to its scalp and dressed in a crude approximation of a business suit. The skin had bubbled in places; the face had large blackened cracks running through it.

Frank shuddered; he hated dolls. Gramma Kelly had a lifelike china doll that she called "Laura", their dead mother's name, and Gramma insisted that the brothers to talk to it whenever they visited. Their last visit, just before New Orleans, Frank hadn't been able to deal with it anymore and had waited outside by the van until it'd been time to leave.

"Wax." Joe pointed to a blob under the doll's legs — its feet had melted off.

"This couldn't have been in the fire. It would've melted. And why didn't anyone else see it?" Frank scowled. The corner had an odd smell, even through the smoke stench. Something chemical, astringent and bitter. "That sounds like major magic."

"I don't think it was hidden." Joe stared at the corner, the doll, then turned to study the room and the floor. "Nothing like the mouse-trick that I can tell. Maybe it just got overlooked, or the investigators haven't been here yet."

"That's a big maybe, considering that SFFD knew this was an ignition spot."

Joe sighed. "I know, but my way, it's no big deal. Your way, we're dealing with big bad _juju_ and we're in deep trouble."

Frank smiled. "Point taken."

"Well, they didn't bother to erase signature. Not that I recognize what's there. It's all over the burn. Here." Joe touched a spot on the burnt wall, then jerked his hand back. "The whole wall's loaded. But it doesn't feel like mage-Gift. Not mostly."

"So a rogue pyro — wait. _They?_ More than one?"

"Just one. He, she, I can't tell." Joe scowled at the un-burnt floor. "Frank…there's no magic on the floor. Not in the corner."

No magic? So what kept the fire at bay? "What about the doll?"

"Definitely." Joe took the backpack, pulled a small cloth bag. Using it to cover his hand, he picked the doll up before Frank could stop him.

"Joe!"

Joe looked up. "It's silk. Magic-retardant. I want Josh to get a look at this." He pulled out a second, then a third silk bag, and wrapped the doll inside all three. "I don't know what it is, but it's making my skin crawl, even through the silk. No wonder Matt was spooked."

"Retardant…" Frank said slowly. _"Fire retardant._ If it's not magic that kept the fire back, what if the arsonist used chemicals? That would explain how the corner's intact. But the heat should've melted the wax."

"The head doesn't feel like wax." Joe tapped it through the silk. "Porcelain, maybe. Maybe whatever's on the doll kept it from melting."

Curious, Frank touched the silk bag. Nothing that he could tell…but he brushed his hand off against his jeans, over and over. It felt sticky.

"Whoever set this here wanted it found," Joe said. "They wanted to be sure it got noticed."

"Maybe the SFFD did find it. Maybe they didn't think anything of it. Or they ignored it, because it didn't make sense." Frank managed a grin. "I'm considered an expert on that attitude."

"You said it, I didn't." Joe put the triple-wrapped doll into a plastic sandwich baggie, wrote "Used" on it with a sharpie marker, and tucked it carefully into the backpack.

"Got another of those?" Frank said. "Let's get chunks of the floor and wall, too. We can test for retardants at the lab."

A chunk of the floor tile, a piece of the wall from the ignition spot. They were careful to mark the bags, wrapping everything in silk and stowing the baggies inside the backpack's internal pockets.

Joe dusted his hands off on his jeans. "I take it back — we need to check the other floors. See if it's the same thing."

Frank nodded. "I agree. C'mon."

They made it back down the corridor and pulled open the stairwell door — and a loud voice made them jump.

"Who the hell are _you?"_


	8. Double Jinx Mystery

_A/N: Thanks to AlecTowser, Caranath, Xenitha (who gets extra bunny points for catching onto the chapter titles!), Leyapearl, MoonlightGypsy, "J", and RangerLyn for the reviews!_

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Driving a rented brown Ford Pinto on the jammed streets of San Francisco, Nancy was coming to the reluctant conclusion that Frank had been right. Traffic in San Francisco went beyond terrible; it skated right past disaster and dove headlong into catastrophe, and this wasn't even rush hour.

On top of that, the Pinto had a faint stench of rotted french fries. Even a stop for spray-cleaner and a roll of paper towels, followed by a thorough wipe-down of windows, pleather upholstery, and floor mats, hadn't helped. Nancy rolled the windows half-down despite the chilly day.

It helped her stay awake, though. She'd wanted to sleep in and take the day off to recoup, but it was best to start right away. Since it was Friday, everyone would be eager to get out for the weekend and not paying attention to newcomers or possible intruders.

Stopped at yet another light of yet another detour, Nancy caught a glimpse of construction fencing and police tape a block over. Frowning, she checked her map. Great. She likely wasn't going to get any closer, then.

There. She jammed on her brakes just as a car pulled out of a parking spot ahead of her, and maneuvered in, gritting her teeth against the blaring of horns behind her. Couldn't they see she was parking? Turning off the ignition, she sat for a moment, breathing her calm back. If she looked upset, that would get people watching her; they'd realize she didn't belong. The key to successful sneaking was to act as if you had every right to be where you were.

After double-checking the map and her directions, Nancy slid out of the Pinto, put enough in the parking meter for the full two hours, and headed off. She chosen her wardrobe with care: a gray business jacket and skirt, comfortable flats, a leather briefcase, with minimal makeup so that she looked fresh-faced and eager-looking. Corporate suits were more open-mouthed if they thought they were helping a confused new employee, especially if that fresh-faced new meat was a good-looking girl.

But then Nancy slowed; she was heading straight for the fenced-off area. She didn't want to check the map here in the open and mark herself as either lost or a tourist (either way, an easy mark for thieves). Biting her lip, she looked through the fence — not new construction. The area stank of smoke and charred wood; the burned-out shell of an office building was in the center of the restricted area. People stood around the outside of the fence — rubber-neckers, Nancy thought, disgusted.

This wasn't good. "Excuse me," Nancy said to a nearby woman. "I'm looking for 181 Fifth Street? Delta Corporation?"

"You're looking at it." Nodding at the burnt shell, the woman was built small and boyish, short white-blonde hair, a huge brown leather purse slung over her shoulder. "Didn't you see the news?"

Nancy double-checked the address in her notebook. "Oh my gosh. I did, I just didn't realize…I have an interview…"

"I'd say it's cancelled," the woman said.

That was an understatement. Nancy stared over the wreckage. Dear God…

"A whole family was killed up on the top floor," the woman went on grimly. "Channel Five says the fire alarms didn't go off. They're already talking lawsuits for negligence."

Typical gossipy ghoul. Nancy kept her expression locked into pleasant neutrality. "Lawsuit against who?"

"Weldon Rathbone. He treats all his people like dirt." The woman crossed her arms over her purse; the leather monstrosity was comically oversized for her small frame. "This is the fifth building of his to burn down."

"It is?"

"Oh, listen to me." The woman shook her head. "I talk too much. Sorry about your interview. Though I'd say you were lucky." With that, she moved off, squeezing through the rubber-neckers and vanishing into the throng.

That was odd. Then again, people here seemed friendlier than they were in New York. Nancy had encountered that at the car rental as she'd waited with a trio of male customers chatting about the latest hot restaurants in town. Hearing she was visiting from New York, they'd given her several places "you absolutely _have_ to try before you go home." Nancy had taken careful notes; if Frank was his usual _insist-on-paying-for-the-woman_ self, she would take full advantage of it.

Nothing more she could do here. Nancy headed back to her car and spent a good half-hour double-checking the other addresses on her map and writing down exactly what the small woman had told her. The "brotherhood of companies" that the Rathbone Foundation prided itself on: five of its buildings burned within a week — some ploy to back up the fraud, maybe?

Nothing could be discounted. People committed crimes over the most trivial reasons. She'd call her father later and let him know. If the arsons were related to their case, if the "small-change" Keller fraud crossed the whole country, and involved the entire Weldon Rathbone Foundation's "brotherhood"…

It could roll all the way up to Rathbone himself.

Thinking, Nancy chewed the end of her pen. Technically, corporate embezzlement and fraud were the FBI's jurisdiction. Practically, it depended on the scope, the amount, and whether the feds thought it worth putting their stretched-thin manpower into pursuing. Paul Keller's fraud, good example.

Next closest address: Union Square.

In ten minutes, she was stuck again. More construction fencing, more detours, and traffic at a standstill. That was probably her answer right there. But she kept getting routed away from the Square without seeing her destination, and finally, frustrated and ready to kill something, Nancy pulled into a parking garage several blocks away on Mission Street.

She would be calm. It was a beautiful day. The walk wouldn't kill her. Anger would just make the case harder.

She checked her watch. She'd skipped lunch; no wonder she was getting cranky — her stomach was complaining. Fine. Check the address, then go eat.

Union Square had her stopping and staring around. This…was not what she'd pictured as a business district, not in a city like San Francisco. Wide green space, centered by a tall towering statue of a dancing woman, surrounded by older buildings that had seen better days — people curled up on benches and covered with mounds of clothing. A group of guys in sheepskin jackets and bell-bottoms had staked out two of the benches as they passed around a cigarette; next to them, two old ladies in polyester dresses and poufy-perms sat feeding pigeons and studiously ignoring two mimes trying to get their attention

The air was filled with mouth-watering food smells, which didn't help her mood — lots of deep-fried somethings, grilled meat, caramel corn, hot dogs, and burritos from vendor carts…

…smoke, burnt wood, wet ash.

She checked the address again and crossed the Square, the pall of old smoke and ash thick and heavy. The construction fencing claimed a good third of the Square proper and nearly the whole block around the ruined building. Nancy cross-checked the addresses of the nearby buildings and sighed. Another burned-out shell. The bottom third looked untouched; the top half was a charred ruin with all the windows blown out. Sickened, Nancy stared up at the stark, blackened shell against the blue sky. Anyone who'd been on those top floors…dear God.

Movement by the fence caught her attention. Frank and Joe? What were they doing here?

More to the point, what were they doing at the building for _her_ case?

She hadn't told Frank anything. Dad wouldn't have given them any information, either: the case was confidential. They couldn't have known. There was no way…

No, there was one way. Nancy's jaw clenched. But Frank wouldn't have dared snoop in her luggage, would he?

Calm down. Union Square seemed to be popular, despite the ruins and the traffic mess. Maybe just coincidence, maybe this was a hang-out…though Frank and Joe hadn't struck her as ghoulish rubber-neckers and they didn't seem the type to hang out on the streets.

But then, as she watched…

Nancy blinked. They looked blurry, as if surrounded in heat waves rising from the pavement. She peered, trying to figure out where it was coming from, but other things kept catching her attention — seagulls swooping in, other pedestrians, street performers. Scowling, Nancy forced herself to focus and kept her gaze on Frank…

…as the brothers opened the fence and slipped through, headed for the burned building. As she watched, they crossed the debris-filled enclosure and went in through one of the side doors on the tower.

No one stopped them. No one raised an alarm. It wasn't as if they weren't there — Nancy saw several construction workers glance in the brothers' direction but then look away, apparently unconcerned.

That was too much. Nancy crossed the street, headed for the fence where they'd been. The chain looped through the links, but hung slack with no lock. How…?

"Excuse me, ma'am." A beefy middle-aged policeman came up to her. "Please keep away from the fence. This area's not safe."

"Sorry. I have…had…a job interview here. I didn't realize it was in this building."

The cop looked unimpressed. "Stay on the other side of the street, ma'am, please."

Some nearby construction workers were scowling in her direction. Forcing a smile, Nancy retreated.

Once back in the Square proper, her smile faded to a scowl. Obviously the brothers had picked the lock on the fence, but how had they gotten past the cops and workers? What were they doing here? She'd told Frank it was her case. Two guys their age — unlicensed, untrained amateurs who weren't working anything for their father, as far as she knew — wouldn't have any official access to a crime scene, much less a dangerous arson scene.

And if Frank had searched her luggage…

It would've been easy to do. He'd insisted on her leaving it in the car yesterday, then had gone down to get it himself. Thinking about it, it'd been a flimsy excuse. He could've easily used the opportunity to search her bags and found her notebook.

Given what Hammond had said…and Nancy did not believe in coincidence. Not on this level, and especially not where Frank and Joe Hardy were involved.

No matter what, they were messing with a crime scene, a crime scene where people had _died!_ Nancy had searched all kinds of dangerous places, but never, ever, had she intentionally crossed into a known crime scene while the cops were still working with it. That was a sure way to get Dad's case tossed out of court and ruin any hope of bringing potential criminals to justice.

Suddenly the Hardys being here wasn't innocent, not at all.

Nancy's jaw clenched. She strode back over to the fence, waited as the cop approached her again.

"Ma'am, I told you…"

"You didn't stop those guys," Nancy said.

"Ma'am?"

"There were two young men who went through here. I saw them. You were talking with those old women," Nancy pointed, "and I saw them fiddling with the lock, then they went through."

Scowling, the cop studied her, then noticed the unlocked chain. He gestured towards the nearest group of workers. "Hey, Tomás, c'mere. This lady says a couple kids went through here —"

"Young men," Nancy corrected, as the workers came over. "About my age."

"— you see anyone like that?"

"They were in jeans and sweatshirts," Nancy said. "One used a crutch."

The workers were shaking their heads. _"Pienso la señora ha tenido demasiado sol,"_ one muttered.

 _She's been standing in the sun too long._ Nancy kept a tight rein on her irritation; she had to keep her tone polite, d _oing-my-civic-duty_. Getting emotional would play into the overly-excitable-female stereotype, and obviously the workers didn't want to get into trouble, admitting they let in unauthorized people. "I saw them. They went through that door." Nancy pointed again.

"If all that's true," _Humor the crazy tourist,_ the cop's patient tone implied, "why would they bother? It's only a burned-out wreck."

"You know souvenir hunters do all sorts of crazy things." Now Nancy abandoned the calm, huffed herself up in righteous indignation. "Look, why would I be wasting my time with this? I'm just trying to stop someone messing with your crime scene. People got killed there…" She didn't know for certain, but no one could've survived those top floors, "…and I don't want someone messing up your chances of getting the one who did it!"

 _Finally._ She'd gotten through to the cop, at least. "Tomás _,_ I'm coming in," the cop said. "The chain was unlocked. Better safe than sorry."

Nancy waited as the workers opened the fence and escorted the cop to the building, then she walked off towards the closest food vendor cart. She stood munching on a hot dog, kettle-chips, and a Coke, watching as the cop came back out of the building, shouted something at the closest group of workers, who looked startled, then ran towards him.

She still had work to do. She had to run down several other addresses to hopefully find the mouse in its lair…but for now, she could settle in and enjoy the fireworks.


	9. Game Plan

_A/N: Thanks to MoonlightGypsy, Caranath, AlecTowser, Leyapearl, Xenitha, SunshineInTheGraySky, & the anonymous one for reviews! Guest: I have never heard of "looky loos" (I'm in the Midwest US); they've always been called rubber-neckers whether they're standing around or passing by. In the '70s series, Nancy's from NY and the Hardys are from MA, and I've never heard "looky loos" used in either of those states, either.  
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"How do we do it?" Joe demanded, from the concrete bunk of the detention cell. "How do we keep getting ourselves into these situations?"

"If you believe Tag," Frank said, "it's a fairy curse."

His brother rolled his eyes. The cops had confiscated everything; Joe hadn't even been allowed to keep his crutch. What they would make of the backpack, Frank had no idea, though it would probably end up as a "you won't _believe_ what came in today" session in the cops' break room.

Two cops, one fire investigator, and several construction workers had been in that stairwell of the ruined office tower, glaring at the brothers as they'd come out onto the landing. There hadn't been anywhere for them to run, save back into the fire-ruined twentieth floor…which hadn't been any kind of choice at all. They'd been escorted out, handcuffed, escorted to a waiting police car, and taken to the station.

From that point, both Frank and Joe had shut up and had said nothing except "We're remaining silent. We want to call our lawyer." They'd been separated and taken to separate interrogation rooms, but Frank kept repeating it over and over, with an edge of frustration in his voice, until he'd finally been allowed to make the phone call to the Center.

Thankfully, Mar had been in. Frank didn't want to deal with Joshua over the phone, not at the police station where anyone could be listening in. But right after that: booked, photographed, fingerprinted, then escorted back to the holding cell with Joe.

Now it was just a matter of waiting in a graffiti-scratched cell with one concrete bench, one toilet, and no privacy. It stank of urine and bleach.

"I did the mouse-trick right," Joe said. "I know I did. Two beat cops, with all those workers — Frank, that wasn't coincidence."

"I know," Frank said quietly. The cell didn't seem to be bugged as far as he could tell, but he didn't want to take chances. "They had to know we were up there."

" _How?"_

"Maybe they saw something. Maybe some light reflected wrong, or a shadow…"

"Frank, we were _inside_. There's no way someone on the ground could've seen anything from that angle."

Metal groaned and clanked; the bored-looking duty officer came back. "Frank and Joe Hardy?"

Both brothers looked up.

"You're both being released. No charges." The officer unlocked the door, opened it and stood waiting.

Frank helped Joe up; his brother made a show of limping and leaning heavily on Frank. "Such a lovely cell," Joe muttered. "So comfortable. I'll be sure to recommend it to all our friends."

" _Joe,"_ Frank said. They did not need to antagonize the cops.

The duty officer's expression didn't change. He only escorted them to the inventory room to sign for their belongings, then out to the front…

"You two," Samuel Flores said, "out. Now."

A round-faced, middle-aged Hispanic man, Samuel normally had an easy grin, but he wasn't smiling now. He wasn't a Blade, though he was part of the Association and lived at the Center — he was a homicide detective for SFPD. The brothers exchanged a look.

"Not a word," Samuel said. "Not a single word, until we're in the car."

Silently, the brothers followed Samuel through the hallways, but the silence only lasted until they hit the edge of the parking lot and Samuel's gray Subaru.

"I stuck my neck out real far for you two," Samuel growled. "So I expect the whole story. Get in."

Frank set the backpack down on the car floor, steadied Joe as he got in, then went around to the other side. Once the car doors shut and Samuel hit the ignition, then, only then, did he speak again.

"I am not to be used as a _get-out-of-jail-free_ card. This will not happen in the future. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Frank said, half a beat behind Joe.

"The official story is that because of your father, I'd asked you to run down some research in your spare time, and that there must have been a misunderstanding on what I'd meant. Commander Garcia was _not_ happy with me about that."

"It was just bad luck we got caught," Joe said.

" _Bad luck_ is an excuse for bad planning, greenhorn. You do not go _in_ unless you can also get _out,_ and you sure as hell _don't_ go sneaking into major crime scenes unless you're triply, quadruply sure on that count. Because next time, Friendly Smiling Detective Sam will let you find out first-hand all about the criminal justice system."

Breathing slow, Frank kept his cool, his expression calm. Samuel had gotten them out, had gotten whatever charges there'd been dropped, and it sounded as if he'd taken a lot of flack in the process. He wasn't going to react well to any excuses.

"Sam, we're sorry," Joe said. "They didn't see us going in. I did everything right —"

"Someone saw you," Samuel cut him off. "Some civilian pointed you out to the street beat on duty."

Joe opened his mouth again; Frank elbowed Joe and shook his head. It didn't matter what they said. Samuel was too angry to listen. Best to keep quiet.

"I believe I'm owed a story," Samuel said.

"Once we're in Josh's office," Frank said. "That way Matt and Josh hear it, too."

Samuel's glare pinned Frank through the rearview. "You think Josh's going to spare you? You're going to have that particular delusion smashed seven ways to Sunday."

"We don't expect it to spare us," Frank said. "I just don't want to repeat myself."

Luckily, Joshua was still in, though Matt was on shift with his firehouse. Without a word, Joshua ushered the brothers and Samuel back to the Blades' office, then waited until Frank and Joe sat down before handing Samuel a beer from the mini-fridge and the brothers Cokes.

"Okay, darlin's." Joshua settled into a lean against the window sill. "Let's hear it."

Just like they'd always done for Dad, whenever he'd asked for a report. Frank took charge and started at the beginning: what they'd done, each step they'd taken and the reasoning behind it, with Joe adding in explanations of the magic he'd used and his own observations, though they didn't bring up the doll. By the time they finished, Joshua was frowning and had Joe run through the mouse-trick for him.

"No fault there, Sam, darlin', _"_ Joshua said, studying Joe and Frank. "That's as solid as Hawk does it. It's not that hard to do. You just picked that up yesterday, Joe?"

Joe nodded. "Kris kept me at it for a good hour."

"It's always perfect in the classroom," Samuel said. "He did _something_ wrong, Josh. They got seen."

"Sam, both you and I know the Gifts aren't foolproof. The civ might've been just watching at the right time." Arms crossed, Joshua settled back. "I will say that you two should've picked a better time. Or didn't it occur to you that broad daylight with lots of people might make it tougher to sneak around?"

"If we'd waited," Joe said, "it would've been too dangerous. We wouldn't have been able to see up there. And a flashlight would've definitely been spotted."

"We never explored abandoned buildings at night," Frank said. "Too easy to break a bone." Well, except for a couple times…but those had been special cases and Joshua didn't need to know about them.

"It's also been a few days already," Joe said. "We didn't want to wait and give the arsonist more time to wipe evidence."

"The arsonist might've been watching the scene," Frank said; Samuel shifted in his chair. "Sometimes they do that, if they're in it for the attention. If they spotted us and saw Joe was Gifted, they'd want to make sure they erased their tracks."

"It might even have been the arsonist who blew the whistle on us," Joe added.

Joshua studied them a moment more, finally nodded. "Sam?"

Samuel blew out a breath. "Dammit, Butterfly, I hate it when you bring logic in."

" _Ché,_ that's why I put them on this."

"Sam, we're sorry," Frank said. "I just asked Mar to get a lawyer. We would've made bail. We didn't expect you to get dragged in."

"They would've tossed you away and melted the key, greenhorn. After those kids at the Intercontinental, the whole force is hot to get the SOB doing this." Samuel's gaze leveled on the brothers. "I meant what I said in the car. This doesn't change any of that."

Frank glanced at his brother. Joe nudged the backpack with his foot, but Frank gave him a small shake of the head. With Samuel laying all that on the table, it wasn't a good idea to reveal that they'd removed evidence.

"Well?" Joshua's gaze flickered to the backpack, then back to Frank and Joe. "With all that, did you find anything?"

"Not much," Joe said. "The room where the fire started, on the twentieth floor. There were a couple hot-spots that were overloaded with energy. Not mage-Gift, and I'm betting pyro, but I haven't been able to work with Kris to find out what it feels like. But the weird thing — that room had one corner that wasn't touched. There wasn't any magic, either. Not in that corner, I mean."

"Really?" Samuel leaned forward. "Did you check the other floors, by any chance?"

Joe shook his head. "Didn't get a chance."

"Flame retardant chemicals," Frank said. "It was a janitor's closet, from the blueprints Matt gave us."

"I love intelligent men," Joshua said, to no one in particular. "Some of our folks would drive themselves crazy trying to figure out how someone used magic to accomplish no magic at all."

"It could still be magic," Frank said. "I can't figure out why a janitor would have such chemicals there."

"I'll see if I can get our scene people up there so lab can run tests," Samuel said.

"We…uh…" Joe glanced at Frank, "…took a couple pieces ourselves to run our own tests."

Samuel waved that aside. "At this point, you couldn't mess it up any worse than the fire did. You'll get results faster than our lab will, since you don't have hundreds of other cases to handle. Let me know under the table, deal?"

"Deal," Frank said, relieved.

"Like I said," Joshua said, grinning. "Sam, darlin', these two have to get at those scenes, if they're going to find out anything and track the perp. If you or Matt can't arrange it officially, it's going to be clandestine."

"In other words, I'm still the _get out of jail free_ card," Samuel sighed.

"I'd like to avoid the ' _get_ in _jail'_ part," Joe said.

"You and me both." Samuel got to his feet. "Okay. I'll get with Matt. I can't promise anything, though."

Frank pushed off the couch, helped Joe up, then picked the backpack up. If they were lucky, they could beat a clean retreat before Joshua caught on.

"Should I ask what else is in the bag, _ché_?" Joshua said, as they reached the door.

"Junk," Frank said.

Joe gave him a _look_. "Kris helped me put it together, stuff she called a 'kit'. Salt, holy water, that kind of stuff."

"Okay. See me when you get a moment. I can help you refine it. What Kris uses and what you need might be two different things." Joshua's serious gaze hadn't let up. "And this is an order, darlin's. When you go to those scenes, do not take _anything_ with you that could be construed as a weapon, no matter whether you no-see it or not." A _no-see_ was similar to the mouse-trick, but placed on an object. "Carrying concealed at a crime scene'll guarantee a prison term. While we're normally good at making such matters disappear, I can't make any guarantees."

Frank didn't breathe easier until they were outside the war-room, the door had shut behind them, and they'd crossed into the commons. Samuel wasn't anywhere in sight, and the commons was mostly empty. "You didn't mention the doll," Frank said in an undertone. "I thought for sure you would, when Sam left."

"After Sam read us the riot act, I didn't want Josh having an attack of civic duty," Joe said. "I figured they'd let pieces of the wall slide, but not something like that."

"So…do as much as we can with it, then ask Tag when she gets back?"

Joe gave him a lopsided grin. "You're pretty smart for an Older Brother — _hey!"_

Fire, light flashed —

Frank tried to shove in front of Joe, but Joe shoved him back against the nearest wall, blocking Frank with his own body as _something_ streaked towards their faces…

…and splashed visibly off Joe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw movement, grabbed up the nearest chair, and swung hard. Whoever it was jumped back barely in time. _Downs,_ a corner of Frank's brain identified, as more bolts impacted several inches away from his face.

Then two physical missiles darted in, one screaming at the top of her lungs. " _¡No! ¡No! ¡No lastime los ángeles!"_

Dropping the chair, Frank grabbed little Rita out of the line of fire — swinging her around between himself and the wall — as Joe grabbed Emelio and wrestled him down. Another bolt splashed visibly off the air before more shouts erupted.

" _Hold — Josh, stop!"_ Downs bellowed, over top of Rita's shrieking.

" _Rita — Eme!"_ Joe yelped as one of Emelio's kicks scored, but Frank grabbed Emelio before the boy could squirm away.

"Stop it, _both of you!"_ Frank shoved Emelio against the wall beside Rita, then twisted to look around. Panting, glowing faintly, Joe was on his knees between Frank, the kids, and the rest of the room. Standing at the edge of the commons with his own hands alight, Joshua sagged against a table and heaved an obvious, open sigh of relief.

"Rita, Eme —" Downs started, but Frank had already turned on the children.

"Don't ever run into the middle of trouble like that!" Frank snapped, glaring down; Rita and Eme edged away, wide-eyed. "You both could've been hurt!"

That got a burst of protest in Spanish from Rita. "She wouldn't listen to me," Eme said, sullen. "I was trying to stop her!"

"And all you would've done is gotten yourself killed!"

"You sound just like Dad, you know that?" Joe muttered.

"Easy, Handsome," Joshua said, coming over. "Let Harold handle the parent stuff. And good job, held it off, even for the unexpected interruptions there."

"They're both too slow," Downs said, but his glare was on the children. "You would've had the mundane down if you'd come from this direction, Butterfly. Rita, Eme, come here. _Now."_

Frank backed off; Emelio got to his feet and helped his sister up. Both children looked upset, Rita gulping air and face tear-streaked, Emelio scowling and sullen.

"Hey," Joe stopped the kids as they started to shuffle towards Downs, "Rita, Eme, it's okay. It was just a lesson, that's all. But you really scared us. Joshua and Harold there could've hurt you by accident."

" _Tío_ Harold didn't say nothin' about it," Emelio muttered. "We can't tell all that stupid stuff you guys do."

"That's why you stay out of it," Frank said.

" _Frank,"_ Joe said. "But he's right, Eme. It doesn't help if we have to worry about you while we're trying to stay alive."

"Shut it, _bait,"_ Downs growled. "You two pretty boys stop interfering. Rita, Eme, back to your rooms."

Frank held his peace as Downs escorted the children out of the commons, then blew out his own relieved breath. His arms, back, and shoulders were a mass of tension and his side was bruised where Rita had accidentally kicked him.

"I'm going to start insisting Nancy stay with us at all times." Joe levered himself back to his feet. "Josh, I really don't need broken glass all over this pack."

"Use plastic," Frank said. "Holy water pistols."

"Yeah, right, I can see us explaining that one at Mission Dolores."

"Your friend won't save you, _ché._ " Joshua sounded amused. "You'll just end up doing some explaining sooner than you thought. Still…you did good on those shields. And Frank, you reacted faster than I did when the kids ran in. Good job."

"I was going to ask you to join us for dinner tonight, Josh." That _good job_ was a warm glow in Frank's chest; when Joshua paid a compliment like that, he meant it. "Burn the Tail, Joe's treat."

"I've changed my mind," Joe said. "I'll be spending the cost of his dinner just cleaning up the pack."

"I'm on Wings tonight, darlin's." Joshua grinned. "But have fun. I'll see you both tomorrow." Then, as if on afterthought, he spoke over his shoulder as he turned to go. "Let me know what you find out from that doll."


	10. Tower Treasure

_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Leyapearl, Wendylouwho10, MoonlightGypsy, Xenitha, DuffyBarkley, & SunshineInTheGraySky, & "Guest" for the reviews! Before anyone asks: Weebles were an awesome US kids toy in the '70s, basically plastic egg-shaped people things. "Weebles wobble but they don't fall down" was the ear-worm jingle used in the ads. Yeah. We were weird kids back then. ;)  
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Finally, one of her addresses wasn't burned to the ground.

Parking in this city was non-existent. It was worse than New York City. Or rather, parking _did_ exist, but was crammed full, and Nancy ended up parking several blocks away — another miracle, another car pulling out just as she got within range, resulting in more horns blaring behind her, even though it was plain that she was parking.

With all the change she'd spent today on parking meters alone and in wasted gas while caught in traffic jams, she could've gotten a full month's pass on public transport. Scowling, Nancy counted out the dimes and nickels for the full two hours of the meter, then, on a thought, left the briefcase locked in the trunk, taking only a manila folder with a few sheets of scribbled notes; her keys, wallet, and a couple other items she tucked carefully into her inner business-jacket pockets. An idea was forming in the back of her head, one that would play a lot better than pretending to be a job applicant, and a briefcase didn't fit the bill at all.

She'd just eaten, but the smells as she walked had her stomach growling again. How could any city be filled with such good food smells? Baked goods — a distinct aroma of vanilla and yeast — smoked meat, wood-fired grills, fresh baked pretzels, fried onions, a whiff of teriyaki, and rotisserie chicken. No wonder people in this city walked everywhere. They had to, or they'd wind up looking like Weebles.

That image — a city full of Weebles wobbling in an earthquake and not falling down — amused her for most of the hike. Then the irresistible scent of baked peaches halted Nancy in her tracks; that was just too much. She tracked it to a small bakery tucked between a newsstand and a cigar shop, where the baker was just putting out peach-and-cheese pastries fresh from the oven.

"We got the first crop yesterday," the woman said, smiling, and added a free peanut-butter cookie to the order after a friendly chat and finding out Nancy was from New York "too". The pastry's cheese turned out to be brie, creamy, rich, and drizzled with honey mixed with fresh lime. That and a fresh cup of excellent coffee put Nancy in a much better mood — on finding out the bakery sold whole-bean bags of that coffee, she resolved to return and buy a few pounds to take home. Dad would love it.

Maybe walking in this city wasn't so bad, after all.

Nancy was still licking her fingers off when she finally reached 555 California — Rathbone Tower. She stopped in the ground-floor restroom to wash her hands and straighten her hair, then walked out to the directory in the center of the lobby. The Weldon Rathbone Foundation, "the Brotherhood of Companies", 51st floor.

She frowned at the directory. That was the overall parent company, directly in charge of at least three of the suspect projects. They should have files of some kind, if only copies for prospective investors…maybe even records of what and who. If she was really lucky, they'd have files on all the suspect projects from their subsidiaries.

First, find out how the place was laid out, then proceed from there. She did not want to confront Rathbone himself or his high-level flunkies, not even by accident — that was a job for the courts and the SEC, not a part-time investigator.

Nancy headed for the elevators. She pressed the 51st floor, then shuffled aside to make room for a harried-looking woman pushing a stroller, two women in business dress chattering about lunch, and several men in pinstripes and briefcases. Nancy opened the manila folder, pursed her lips as if reviewing the contents, and waited.

Finally, the 51st floor dinged; the doors slid open on a beige hallway with hideous lime-green carpet. Nancy turned left and strode down the hallway, but found nothing: only several empty office rooms waiting for renters, a real estate company, a doctor's clinic that looked to be frequented by employees of the building's various renters, and a smoking area at the opposite end. Nancy turned, went the other way, saw the Rathbone logo on the wall behind a receptionist's desk the moment she rounded the other corner.

Nancy fell into step behind a group of corporate suits headed in that direction, as if she was hurrying to keep up with them. They headed right past the snooty-looking bleached-blonde receptionist (who ignored them, though Nancy glanced at the woman's nameplate: "Mary") and around another corner.

Another elevator had been directly behind the receptionist's desk. Interesting.

But once around the corner and out of the receptionist's direct line-of-sight, Nancy slowed and let the suits get out of earshot. She was looking at a maze of gray-covered cubicle walls and filing cabinets, the monotony broken only by large peace lilies, ficus trees, and the windows on the north and east walls giving a spectacular view of the Bay.

Nancy turned to the left again and started to walk, business-like and confident, as she made note of the layout. She spotted an empty chair inside a manual-laden cubicle and sat down for a bit, just enough time to be natural, then stood up again and casually walked the circumference of the floor. She had the manila folder open in her hands and her concentration seemingly on the papers. A big corporate office as this, with so many people, they wouldn't stop her if she looked as if she belonged. She noted names and divisions — the place was grouped according to various companies under the Brotherhood. If anyone did question her, she'd claim to be from whatever area was farthest away.

She completed the circuit, then continued on until she was at the filing cabinets clustered near the north windows. There Nancy stopped, referred to her notes, and scanned the drawer-labels until she found the needed section, then opened a drawer and started to search.

Nancy couldn't help a smug smile. No private investigator worth her salt would sneak around in buildings after hours, when a bit of confidence and audacity got you inside legitimately in broad daylight. The lighting was better, and she didn't have to worry about after-hours security.

There. The Chelsea-Briggs River Expansion, one of the suspect projects. She pulled the file, leafed through it briefly, then set it on top the cabinet before looking for the next.

"Excuse me, can I help you?"

Nancy jumped, caught herself before she fell against the cabinets.

"Oh — I'm so sorry!" The woman steadied her: a stout older woman with salt-and-pepper hair. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just got all these files back in order, and I don't want to have to go through that again, Miss…um…?"

"Nancy," Nancy said, relaxing and smiling. "Sorry, I was so focused on what Mr. Coleman wanted, I didn't hear you come up." Absolutely true: Coleman had been Paul Keller's lawyer and was one of the big watchdogs of the Rathbone Foundation. Whatever he wanted would mesh with whatever game Keller and anyone else involved had going on.

"Mr. Coleman?" The woman looked surprised. "Robert Coleman? Mr. Rathbone's lawyer?"

Nancy nodded. "I need some files copied. Something's come up…um. Sorry. I'm really not supposed to talk about it." There, just enough information…

"Believe me, I understand," the woman said dryly. She cocked her head. "I haven't seen you here before."

"I'm new," Nancy said. "Just over from the agency. Poor Sandy's so overworked —" Sandy was Coleman's secretary, "— she needed an extra hand to keep up with the paperwork." Nancy let her smile go to full grin. "This seems like a wonderful place to work." All of it true, start to finish. As long as the woman didn't ask what agency or who the copies were for…

Now the woman smiled. "It is. They treat you human here. Lorraine." She offered her hand; Nancy shook it warmly. "Our system's a bit confusing. I've got a few minutes. I can pull the files for you."

"Oh, please, thank you!" In a few minutes, Nancy had a stack of five thick manila folders, and Lorraine walked her over to the copy room and helped her set up the Xerox machine's sheet-feeder. "I don't mean to pry," Nancy said hesitantly, as Lorraine fussed over loading a pack of fresh paper in, "but…what's the elevator out front? The one behind Mary?"

"That's for Mr. Rathbone," Lorraine said. "His penthouse is right above us. He hasn't left it in over twenty years."

"Really?" Nancy shifted her stance to _ready-for-a-good-juicy-gossip-session._ "That's odd."

Yup, she'd pegged Lorraine right. "It was right after his wife left. The movie star, Greata Delquist — oh, she was before your time, I'm sure. If you've ever seen _Winds of March_ …or maybe _The Overflowing Cup?"_

Nancy nodded, keeping a wide-eyed-fascinated look on her face.

Not that Lorraine needed such encouragement. "Ran away with another man and disappeared. Even left her child behind. It was in all the papers — they claimed all sorts of nasty things. And Mr. Rathbone got so angry with the press — he punched one reporter out — that he closed himself off up there."

"Wow. So he sees nobody?"

"I've seen Mr. Coleman go up there," Lorraine said. "He has Mary help him with grocery supplies once a week. But that's it. I've never seen anyone else use the elevator, anyway."

The copier running full steam, Nancy mulled that over as Lorraine left. It had nothing to do with the case, but it would be fascinating to look up and read about. Maybe visit the San Francisco Public Library; it'd be a good break, just to relax in a good big-city library and enjoy research for fun, for a change. Especially if Frank could join her…

She allowed her brain to drift on that for a bit, as she fed the sheets through the copier, but then the sound of nearby male voices jarred her back.

"You're joking, surely?"

"No. A ten year sentence on Terminal Island. I'm appealing to get it reduced, but I've warned Paul to be on his best behavior."

 _Coleman!_ Nancy scooped up the copies and stuffed them into her manila folder. Please, God, don't let Coleman see…

"Oh, Mr. Coleman!" Lorraine. So much for luck holding out.

Nancy didn't dare stay to hear the rest. As calmly as possible, she walked out of the copy room and glanced around. Just over by the big windows, Coleman and another man were partially turned away from her, as Lorraine came bustling up.

No time. Nancy strode away. She'd made it to the edge of the exit hallway when…

" _You! Stop!"_

Nancy rounded the corner, pushing past others coming in and the receptionist's desk. Thank God, the stairwell was right there — Nancy dropped all dignity, hit the door, and ran down the stairs, jumping two and three at a time in her rush. Down two floors, then she darted out an exit door and forced herself to slow down, walking around the perimeter until she found the ladies room for that floor. She slipped in, gulping air to catch her breath.

Two choices. Either try the elevator and pray that Coleman wasn't waiting for her with security…though…thinking about it, the most they could do was escort her out. It was a public place, she'd walked right in without being challenged, and she'd done no damage. For that matter, she'd been _handed_ the files, and she hadn't stolen them. Just made copies. She hadn't even lied.

Alternative: slowly make her way downstairs, floor by floor. Anyone waiting would get bored and assume she'd beaten them to ground and left. Nancy doubted they'd bother with a floor-by-floor, room-to-room search — the other businesses wouldn't put up with it, and there likely wasn't the manpower, anyway.

Decision made.

It took a good two hours to finally reach the ground floor lobby. Nancy made a point of circling each and every floor, walking casually and taking her time, admiring the view from the windows. By the time she hit the fifth floor, though, she was impatient and hungry again; it should be safe by now. She grabbed the elevator, behind a group of business men and women who looked as if they were leaving for the day.

No one yelled, no one pointed, no one grabbed her to stop her. Nancy crossed the lobby and out into the sunlight, across the street, and only then breathed easier. She glanced back towards the building…and paused. Just for a moment, someone had been standing near the doors: Coleman.

No, it couldn't have been. He would've grabbed her or yelled for security. He wouldn't let her go…would he?

Later. She was hungry. She had to beat rush hour — she definitely did not want to see how traffic in this city could possibly get worse.


	11. Invisible Intruder

_A/N: Thanks to all for the reviews: Caranath, AlecTowser, MoonlightGypsy, DuffyBarkley & "Guest"! Btw, how Nancy gets into the office building last chapter is something I actually **did** , back in college in the '80s. Social Engineering: who needs fancy plans? ;)  
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To Nancy's surprise, she got back to the Center ahead of Frank and Joe. Then again, the brothers would have to do some fancy talking to get the cops off their backs. Interfering with a crime scene? That was criminal trespassing, at least. Knowing their father's connections, though, they'd get out with a slap on the wrist, maybe a fine if Joe couldn't keep his mouth under control.

Joe, control his mouth. Nancy remembered too well when she and the Hardys had first met. Joe had kept making sarcastic comments about stealing waiters, though Frank tried several times to shut him up.

Definitely a fine, then.

Stretching the kinks out of her arms and back, Nancy went back to her room. It was close to dinner time, but she should be able to grab a shower and clean up.

Maybe she should offer to pay for dinner. Knowing Frank, though, he wouldn't accept it. Besides, she wasn't feeling guilty at all. Fenton hadn't said his sons were working a case for him, nor would he approve of them fouling up a crime scene, especially where people had died. Unlicensed amateurs wouldn't be working a major arson case, either. There was no good reason for Frank and Joe being there - and the only reasons Nancy could come up with were the very, very wrong ones.

Which led to the worrying question: why had they been there? Was this so-called Association behind the fires? Had Frank and Joe been eliminating evidence?

As she headed for the bathroom, Nancy stopped. Noise thumped from the other door, the so-far-unseen, in-Seattle-for-the-weekend Kris's door. Unsure, Nancy stood a moment, listening. The noise repeated, sounding as if something hit the floor.

Well, it wasn't snooping if she was chasing someone else out. Nancy opened the door.

With a gasp, the intruder jumped: a young woman, cheeks flushed and raw-looking, her eyes reddened, a deep purplish bruise on her left cheek. Tangled, short-cropped, mousy blonde hair, long-sleeved gray t-shirt, and faded black jeans. She looked younger than Nancy, eighteen at most.

"I don't know who you are," Nancy said. "But the woman who lives here won't like you snooping."

"Um...she's me. You're Nancy?" At Nancy's nod, "I'm Kris. Frank and Joe's tagalong."

Nancy hesitated. It was obvious the girl had been crying, but Nancy didn't want to pry. Not yet, anyway. "Sorry. I thought you weren't coming in until Sunday. I heard the noise and thought someone had broken in."

"I just…um…I mean, I decided to come home early. Seattle wasn't what I thought." Wiping at her face, Kris looked down at a stack of cardboard boxes in the middle of the floor. "I cleaned out all the junk in your room yesterday, so I'm on a roll."

Nancy looked around the room: bright, colorful, warm. Crocheted afghans and satiny throw pillows covered an old couch; tie-dyed beanbags were scattered on the floor. The window — stained glass in abstract swirls of blue, green, and red — was hung with more of the rainbow-prisms; John Denver albums lay on the stereo, a battered metal desk against the near wall, and the rest of the wall-space taken up by bookshelves crammed full. An archway in the far wall led off to another space. "This is really nice. Let me guess. The prisms were actually your idea?"

Not looking at Nancy, Kris emptied out the desk drawer. "Well, most of them are Joe's, so it's legit if he took credit. I only put a couple up, but Joe decided to overdo it."

"Figures. I love it, though. Joe said he got them at a Renaissance Faire. I wouldn't mind going to one of those." Close up, Kris didn't fit the type for bodyguards that Nancy had known. Most of those were bruisers, even the women; Kris was built small and somewhat stocky, a few inches shorter than Nancy — a definite disadvantage in any kind of fight. Maybe Nancy had misunderstood what Mar had meant.

"It ended last weekend." Kris pulled magazines out from another drawer and dumped them into a cardboard box on the floor. Teeny-bop magazines, Nancy noted. Odd reading material for someone who supposedly worked as a bodyguard. "But there's an art fair tomorrow, over by the Port. The prism guy's usually at those, too."

Something to check out, definitely: San Francisco's art community was famous…and notorious. Then Nancy noticed the cover pictures on the topmost magazine: the rock band Karma. Odd. Kris had been going to see them this weekend, according to Frank and Joe.

The young woman's demeanor bothered Nancy, too: unsmiling, detached. Not precisely unfriendly — _flat,_ that was it. Uncomfortable, Nancy shifted. "I hope you don't think I'm being rude…but do you need help?"

Kris only looked at her.

"I mean, you look like you've been crying. I know I'm a stranger…but…sometimes a stranger's the best shoulder." Nancy could learn more about this place and the Association while she was at it, too, but no need to bring that up.

Kris looked down again. "Well, you're fitting in here, definitely."

"Excuse me?"

"It's nothing." Kris emptied out another drawer. "Um…just…um…guy-trouble, I guess."

"Frank and Joe?"

Kris shook her head. She wiped at her eyes, winced when her hand brushed the bruise. "Has Frank shown you the kittens yet? I need to check on them. Moggie's been getting sick on the food."

An obvious forced subject change. Nancy decided to take the hint, for the moment. "I'm ready to pack them in my bags and take them home." Guy-trouble, and the girl had a good-size bruise on her cheek. Nancy wasn't liking this.

"You and half the Center. C'mon. Frank gave me permission to go in his room to help out with them."

Any excuse to see the kittens was a good one. Maybe Nancy could get Kris to open up a little more. Nancy trailed behind her as Kris went first to the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels, the trash can from under the sink, a box of baking soda, and a jug of white vinegar, then to the brothers' hallway.

Noise _crashed_ from somewhere downstairs — followed by yelps, angry yells, and children's voices shrieking in Spanish. Both women jumped; Nancy started for the archway, but Kris stopped her.

"Don't. It's nothing."

" _Nothing?"_

"Um…we've got folks here who get a bit too enthusiastic with karate stuff. You recognize the noise, after a while."

Nancy looked at her.

"Seriously. They jump each other to keep themselves on their toes." Kris hesitated. "Um…if you want to go down there, you can, but…um…that means you'd be fair game."

Nancy looked down at her business attire. Not a good idea. "Gotcha."

No sign of Frank and Joe in their hallway — and Nancy gagged. The stench was _horrible_. "Oh, lord, Moggie." Kris croaked out, holding a hand in front of her nose, and stopped Nancy before she crossed Frank's doorway; there was a vomit patch right in front of the door. "It's the vet for you, little girl. Frank'll be sleeping on Joe's floor tonight, for sure."

There were several more vomit patches scattered over the floor. Moggie meowed pathetically from her spot in the open closet, followed by a chorus of _meeps_ and three of the kittens wobbling towards them.

"I'll give you the hard job," Kris said to Nancy; Nancy had gone immediately to the window to open it. It helped, but not much. "Keep the babies busy while I clean up."

"Gladly," Nancy said, trying not to gag as Kris started mopping up the mess and applying liberal amounts of baking soda. Nancy scooped up the three wobblers and sat down at Frank's desk under the window and the fresh air. Meeping and squirming, the kittens nibbled at her fingers and batted at her hair. Cute, cute, _cute:_ soft furry bellies, fuzzy noses, stubs of tails. But, cute distraction or not…Nancy cast for something to say, settled on, "Are you part of the Association, too?"

Giving Nancy an odd stare, Kris sat back on her heels. _"Oh._ Oh…lord." Then, suddenly, the girl was full of amusement. "Oh, man, I bet Frank was happy about _that._ "

Confused, Nancy opened her mouth, shut it. "I'm sorry?"

"Suurrrrre you are. Frank and Joe didn't say _anything_ about you being one of us! So they didn't know — wow. I wish I'd been here to see their faces."

Enlightenment hit, but Nancy kept her mouth shut. It hadn't been what she'd had meant, but let the girl keep thinking Nancy was in the Association. See what that brought out.

"Your shields are really good," Kris went on. "I was wondering why I wasn't picking up from you. I take it you're out of NYC?"

"Sort of," Nancy said carefully, wondering what Kris meant by _picking up._ "I stay close to River Heights."

"I don't blame you. Bronx Center _sucks."_ Kris soaked another spot down in vinegar. "I'm one of the Blades out here, by the way. If you've heard any stories about Joshua, I'm his partner, Hawk."

Hammond hadn't mentioned anything like that. "Joshua…you mean Joshua Thomas?" Nancy remembered something she'd heard someone else say last night, chanced it. "The butterfly?" The man definitely fit that nickname, judging from his clothes.

"The one and only." Then Kris paused. "Um…maybe I'm making too big an assumption. Do Frank and Joe know…?"

"I haven't said anything to them." The exact truth.

"I want to be there when you tell them." Kris turned her attention back to cleaning up the messes. "I'm surprised Joe hasn't figured it out — he should've seen your shields. Ohhhhh…unless he's keeping quiet. Gods, he's _evil."_

 _Joe_ should've seen…? That was what Hammond had called the crystal and the supposed protections: _shields._ So _Joe_ was one of these psychics? But Nancy kept her mouth shut around her questions. Better to keep quiet than spoil the girl's chatter.

But then an open manila folder on the desk caught her eye. Nancy glanced, then glanced again. _Mason & Roberts_ was the heading on the top paper.

That was the office tower at Union Square, the one that had burned. Nancy looked at Kris — who still scrubbed the floor and wasn't paying attention — then pulled the folder closer and shifted the top papers aside to see the rest. The papers weren't any of hers, but still…Intercontinental? 600 Market Street?

"Ugh," Kris said from the far corner, where the litter box was. "Diarrhea, too. Moggie, you poor girl. No wonder it stinks."

"It might be an infection. George — one of my best friends — her cat didn't pass the placenta when she had a litter." Biting her lip, Nancy skimmed the papers: all Rathbone Foundation businesses, including the two burned ones she'd visited. But these papers weren't hers. Where'd Frank get them from? And _why?_

"I didn't see them born, so I don't know," Kris said. "Frank didn't say. Maybe I can check her."

Nancy wasn't paying attention. Rathbone Tower didn't head any of the papers as best she could tell. Interesting: just the burned ones, and a fast skim of the papers when Kris wasn't looking showed building layout and rooms marked off, with scribbles stating "ignition source" —

— a diagram for arson?

No chance to look in depth, not without drawing attention to what she was doing. Nancy pushed the papers back to their original spot, as Kris finished scooping out the litter box and got up to kneel by Moggie, who was still curled up in the closet with the other three kittens.

Nancy couldn't stop thinking, even as she tickled the kittens' bellies. Hammond had called the Association "subversive", and the Rathbone Foundation took government contracts. What if the Association _was_ behind the arson?

Which meant Frank and Joe had to have been there to destroy evidence.

It was a lot of what-ifs…but now Nancy couldn't ignore the possibility, not when the FBI was involved. Especially not when she'd seen Frank and Joe enter one of those burned buildings with no legal reason to be there.

There was noise at the hall door, voices. "We're here, big brothers," Kris called. "Moggie got sick again."

"Not on my bed, I hope," Frank said. He looked haggard and smelled of smoke. But then he stopped, gagged, and went over to push all the windows open to their widest extent before grabbing a fan and positioning it on his desk to blow in more air. "You're back early, Tag."

Her attention on Moggie, Kris shrugged. "Yeah."

"Looks like you've had a rough day," Nancy said to Frank. "You smell like a fireplace." _No._ Frank and Joe weren't like that. They couldn't be involved in arson.

But then why the diagrams? If this place of psychics _did_ have them brainwashed...

Frank just looked at her.

"Smells better than _that."_ Grinning, Nancy nodded towards the litter box.

"Just your normal everyday round of everything gone totally wrong," Joe called from the hallway, his voice growing closer. He looked in. "Vão and Rafe wear you out already, Tag? I thought the first show was tonight." Then Joe stopped. "What happened to your face?"

The chattering girl had vanished; Kris looked up. "Moggie's running a fever, I think. I'm taking her to a vet. Something's wrong." Flat. Detached. Kris picked up up the trash can, towels, and vinegar jug. "I'll get a carrier from Eli."

Frank stopped her. "Kris. Your face."

"An accident." She shook him off. "There's new food in the kitchen, Frank. Trevor thought she might not be used to the high protein stuff, so I got a bag of cheap Purina." With that, Kris brushed past both brothers and left.

"Uh-oh," Joe said softly.

"Something tells me we need to have words with a couple musicians," Frank said.

Joe shook his head. "Leave her alone for right now. You know she won't talk."

"That's what worries me." Frank looked down at the kittens in Nancy's lap. "I hate to interrupt, but I'd like to get a shower. It's been a rough day."

"I call first dibs," Joe said. "Never interfere with a woman cuddling kittens, Frank. You definitely flunked Dating 101."

"It's okay, I can take a hint," Nancy said, ignoring the _dating_ jibe. Diagrams for arson on Frank's desk — buildings that just happened to be for the same corporation Nancy was investigating. Coincidence on that level? Not with Frank and Joe involved.

Nancy got to her feet, deposited the kittens back with their mama. Kris was right. Something about Moggie didn't look right — eyes dull, squinty — and Nancy scratched the poor cat around the chin and ears, smiling as the purring increased to jet-engine levels. Getting to her feet, Nancy glanced at the folder. Maybe she should bring it up now. Confront Frank while he was obviously tired and out of sorts, he'd be more likely to give her the truth.

"I'm offering dinner tonight," Frank said. "Joe's paying for Burn The Tail, if you don't mind Jamie coming along."

"Which means I'm offering dinner, not you," Joe said.

"Burn The Tail?" Nancy said. "And who's Jamie?"

"Japanese restaurant." Oh, that smile. Even when exhausted, Frank's smile was _gorgeous_. "It's fancy, but jeans are fine. And Jamie's Joe's girlfriend."

"Godzilla's their _sushi_ chef," Joe added. The grin on Joe's face told Nancy that there was something he wasn't saying. "That's Joshua's friend, the one you asked about."

It had been very obvious that Frank hadn't wanted her to ask _more_ about, though Nancy had a suspicion. She wasn't naive, after all. "So you've got _another_ girlfriend," Nancy said to Joe. "Bess'll be heartbroken."

"You should see the notches on his headboard," Frank said.

"Watch it, brother, or I'll tell Jamie that you and Nancy want to model for her after all."

"You do, and I'll take her up on it."

Joe blinked.

Frank threw a pillow at him. "Get your shower already. I'm starved."

"Jamie's an artist?" Nancy said.

Frank only smiled. Joe opened his mouth, shut it, then headed to the bathroom.

Nancy glanced at the manila folder again, decided against it. After dinner, maybe. Best stick with another topic, though not so safe. "You called her Tag — I thought her name's Kris? You said she's Mar's daughter, but she doesn't look like her at all."

"She's adopted," Frank said, in a way that closed the topic. "We grew up together — she was our annoying kid sister who kept tagging along no matter where we went." He smiled again. " _Fun_ annoying, though."

What they'd said, right after Kris left, and what Kris had said, the way she'd acted… "Frank," Nancy said hesitantly, "when I came in, I heard her in her room. She was crying."

Frank looked up from the kittens.

"I'm not trying to be nosy. But you and Joe obviously think she's in trouble." Nancy shifted from foot to foot. "You saw that bruise."

Silence.

"Joe didn't think she'd talk," Nancy said, nettled. Frank's expression was his _let-us-big-strong-guys-handle-it_ face _._ "But you're guys. I'm a woman."

"I never would've guessed," Frank said.

She would not be baited. "There's some things a girl won't talk to guys about. She might talk to me."

"It's Kris's privacy. We don't rat on each other, and I'm not going to let a total stranger butt in, either."

"So you're just going to ignore it?" Typical _men._ But Nancy had to stay calm. Frank would yank out the _over-emotional-female_ card, if given even the tiniest opening. "Abuse should be ratted on. Ignoring it just makes it worse."

"I know that."

"She's involved with those musicians, isn't she? With Vão Carvalo?" When Frank hesitated, Nancy glared. "You think he's abusing her."

"Women's intuition again?" Not…quite…sarcastic.

"I do listen to what people say," Nancy countered. "Joe wasn't exactly subtle about teasing her."

"Joe teases about a lot of things that are just in his head. You should hear what he says about —" Frank stopped. "Never mind. Yes, Kris is involved with Vão and Rafe." Weary, giving in. "But they're not hitting her. She wouldn't put up with that."

"You'd be surprised at what women convince themselves to put up with." That young woman — girl, really — was involved with _two_ of the band? That sounded like someone in way over her head, especially with rock musicians involved. Nancy _knew_ what those types were like.

"Correction: I can't see Mar or Josh putting up with it. Josh's a 'Nam vet, and he's been Kris's big brother a lot longer than me and Joe. And Mar…" Frank stopped.

"There's more to abuse than hitting,. And you guys didn't seem too impressed by them last night."

"There's too many people impressed with them already. But Vão and Rafe aren't like that."

Nancy bit back her temper. She could see where this was going. It always did, in abuse cases. Breaking through the wall of denial was always the hardest part. "That's the problem with abusers. They can be real charming, right up to the point they're not. And no one wants to believe that 'such nice guys' could do something like that. Someone famous…he'll turn it around on the girl, making it seem like she's at fault, and everyone'll believe _him_ , not her."

Now Frank looked annoyed. "You're making a pretty big judgement call without having any facts."

His expression, his stance, his tone: she could tell exactly what was running through his head, and she didn't need to be one of these so-called _psychics_ to do so. "It's not a judgement is falling right into a known pattern."

"One bruise and crying is not a pattern. And Kris doesn't lie, not to me and Joe."

"And you didn't believe her, either."

"I think there's more to the story, yes. But I know her a lot better than you do. I'm a lot more qualified to make a judgement call than you are."

"I've seen this sort of thing a lot," Nancy said, with heat. "Dad handles abuse cases _pro bono._ Don't tell _me_ about qualified."

"Look, just butt out. It's none of your business. You go off on those assumptions, and you'll only make a fool of yourself."

"Oh, like you're butting out of _my_ business? Do as you say, not as you do, is that it?"

Frank looked confused. "What?"

That did it. Nancy grabbed the manila folder from his desk, shoved it at him; Frank fell back. _"That!_ You're snooping around in _my_ case, poking into _my_ business —"

"What? This is _our_ case, not _yours._ Who gave you permission to look at my papers?"

"Oh, real nice, Hardy. You take pot-calling-kettle to whole new levels." Nancy made it to the doorway; Joe stood in the hallway, frozen in place. Fine. "Did you enjoy your stay with the cops?"

" _You…?"_ Frank reached as if to grab her arm.

Nancy backed up, dropping into defensive stance. "Do that, and you'll be staring at the ceiling again."

" _You sic'ed the cops on us?!"_

"Snoop in my father's work again, and you'll get more than the cops!"

"Your _father?_ This is something me and Joe are working on, not _you —"_ Then Frank stopped. "Wait a minute…"

"What were you looking for when you searched my bags? Did this place tell you to do that, too?" Nancy didn't wait for an answer. She stormed back to her room.

She wasn't going to wait for Frank to get his guts up and follow her, and Nancy was _not_ going to stay _anywhere_ that jeopardized her father's confidentiality. Nancy grabbed up her notes, carry-on, suitcase — luckily, she hadn't unpacked much; she tossed everything back in without regard for folding — and stormed back out. Hopefully the original hotel still had rooms available.

Frank had made it out to the living room. "Nancy, wait, you've got it all wrong —"

She dodged out of reach, fled the suite, the building, and down to the rental car.

She'd call Hammond tonight.


	12. Devil's Paw

_A/N: Thanks for all the comments & reviews: Caranath, DuffyBarkley, RangerLyn, AlecTowser, SunshineInTheGraySky, MoonlightGypsy!  
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Shocked speechless, Frank stood in the living room as Nancy fled, bags in hand.

 _Damn_ the woman. She got under his skin, challenged every last thing he said, was out here under false pretenses, snooped in his papers, yet she had the nerve to accuse _him_ of interfering in _her_ case?

"Should I be taking notes on your technique?" Joe said, behind him.

Frank was not going to blow up at his brother. Frank breathed out, once, twice, and again. Calm.

"I mean, making up after a fight is supposed to be the best part, but you might be taking the fight part a bit too far."

"Why does she always have to be so _exasperating?"_

"Don't forget annoying, frustrating, irritating, aggravating, difficult, and trying. I've kept a list."

" _Joe…"_

"It's why you like her so much."

Frank held himself still. Calm. _Calm._ Wiping that grin off Joe's face would result in a whole thesaurus' worth of bad adjectives. It wasn't worth it.

"So she sent the cops after us," Joe said. "That's one mystery solved. Did she say why?"

"She accused us of interfering in her father's case." Think. Frank had to think. "And she thinks I searched her bags."

"I heard that part. Because 'this place' told you to do it. What was _that_ supposed to mean?"

"'This place'. The Center? Or the Association?"

"Bet on it," Joe said. "And I'll bet it's tied into why she has shields, too."

"Guys?" Kris came back in, set the cat carrier down. She had little Rita and Emelio in tow. "Um…Nancy just stormed out of the Center. She had her suitcase and everything."

"We know," Joe said. "It was kind of hard to miss."

"Tag, why was she in my room with you?" Frank said.

Kris froze. "Big brother, I _didn't_ —did she do something? I didn't know, honest!"

" _Ritacita,_ Eme," Joe said, "go back with the kittens, please. Keep an eye on Moggie for us." Wide-eyed, both children looked from Frank to Kris, then darted back through to the brothers' hallway.

"I'm not accusing you, Tag," Frank said, more gently. Her eyes red and raw-looking, Kris looked ready to cry; Frank didn't want to upset her more, nor did he want the whole Center over-hearing. "I'm just trying to figure out what happened, that's all."

"Um…she heard noise in my room and came in." Kris wiped at her face. "She thought someone was messing around. We were talking, and I was going to check on the kittens, since Moggie's been sick, and I asked her to come back with me so we could still talk. She was keeping the kittens busy — they're starting to walk. Um…wobble, I mean."

"Wonderful," Joe sighed. "Even more cats totally fascinated by my crutch."

"You didn't see her do anything else?" Frank said.

Kris shook her head. "All those vomit spots and the diarrhea. I was kinda busy."

"No need to go into details," Joe said.

"Did she…I mean…she did something? Big brother, I'm sorry. I didn't think — I just thought — she's your friend. She was at your desk, and she had three of the babies in her lap —"

"Easy, Tag." Frank managed a smile. "Half the Center's been in and out of there. You didn't have any reason to think Nancy'd pull anything."

" _Was_ our friend, you mean," Joe said. "If she sic'ed the cops on us, I'm not so sure of that."

"She _what?"_ Kris stared.

"We got up close and personal with the SFPD," Joe said. "Their jail graffiti was really interesting."

"You guys got _arrested?"_

Frank didn't want to go into that right now, not when something more serious was staring him in the face. Nancy had been right on that count; Frank just hadn't wanted to embarrass Kris. Now, serious, stern, big-brother to little-sister, Frank took hold of their little tagalong's shoulders to look down into her face. "Tag. That bruise. How did it happen?"

She tried to pull away. "I told you. Um…I have to get Moggie to the vet."

" _Kris."_

"I _said_ it was an accident." Kris jerked away and turned, only to find Joe behind her.

"Not good enough, Tag," Joe said. "Not when you show up back here like this. Karma's front row seats are going for thirty bucks a pop legit, not counting your flight and hotel costs. You wouldn't waste all that on just an accident."

"You two are the most annoying, aggravating, _irritating_ big brothers on the face of the planet, you know that?"

"You forgot exasperating," Joe said.

" _Joe,"_ Frank said. "Answer the question, Tag."

Arms crossed. Full-on _glare._ "Vão hit me with a mike stand. Satisfied?"

Frank hadn't expected her to just come out and _say_ it like that. "He hit you."

"Feel like a trip to Seattle, brother?" Joe said. "We need to have a discussion with a certain rock singer."

"Stop it," Kris snapped. "I _said_ it was an accident. He was goofing around with it, I came up behind him, and it clipped me when he turned. Rafe and half the roadies all read him the riot act, and Cy was freaking out royal, trying to make sure I wasn't going to sue them for damages. All right?"

Frank breathed out. He really hadn't wanted to believe it of Vão or Rafe. But still…

"But you came home," Joe said.

"Yes," Kris said, from clenched teeth. "And I'm not going into _that_ with you two, and if you don't move from in front of that door, Joe Hardy, I'll dump you down the stairs myself!"

"You won't dump me," Frank said.

"Bets?" Kris snarled.

Without a word, Joe moved aside. Kris pushed past him; they heard the slam of her door.

"Oh for three," Joe sighed. "We're striking out all over the place today."

"Oh for two, for you. Nancy was all mine." Frank rubbed at his forehead. "Forget it. Everything can wait until I've had my shower. Are you still going to take Jamie to Burn The Tail?"

Joe nodded. "No offense, but if Nancy's not with you, I'd rather have it private."

"Go on. I'm going to track a certain part-time investigator down and shake some information out of her." It wouldn't be too hard. Frank knew what hotel she was supposed to have been staying at; he'd start there.

"Trying to make it oh-for-four? Wow. You're a glutton for punishment, I'll say that."

"We'll see," Frank said.


	13. The Wailing Siren

_A/N: Thanks to DuffyBarkley, Caranath, AlecTowser, MoonlightGypsy, Blushingpixie, and Rachcakes2016b for the reviews, favorites, & follows! You folks make the writing worthwhile. And because I seem to get this question every time she appears: yes, she's **that** Jamie, from the episode "Last Kiss of Summer."  
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 _A bit of a lull before the thunderstorm strikes..._

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Joe sat back with a frustrated (and exasperated, irritated, and annoyed) sigh. Frank had left to hunt Nancy down, and Jamie had said she needed an hour or so before she was ready — she'd been on a creative roll, and Joe knew better than to interrupt that. He wasn't about to chance Kris, yet, either; he'd give her time to calm down. Kris had already gone into Frank's room long enough to get Moggie into the carrier (making sure the kittens were left with hot water bottles wrapped in towels and Rita and Emelio as watchers) and headed out to the vet.

After warning the children not to come in the lab, Joe had dragged his stereo speakers out into the hall, angled them towards the open lab door, and cranked it up. Today it was picking up KZAP out of Sacramento, the DJ running an unholy mix of the Runaways, Sylvester, Bowie, and the Residents. The rhythm helped him focus and made it easy for him to get into that slightly-altered state that helped with sensing magic, and the overlapping sounds of two giggling children pulling ribbon around for kittens to chase was oddly soothing. After grabbing a small snack from the kitchen — a bag of Fritos and a Coke — Joe settled in and started work on the doll.

The doll. Right. Major headache, right behind his eyes.

The spare room in their hall had been a dark, windowless space when Frank and Joe had first arrived here: perfect for their lab. Joshua had given them a generous budget to replace whatever equipment they'd left in Bayport, as well as to add in other bits and pieces they'd been wishing for. They'd had near-total freedom to choose what they needed, though Joshua had advised them not to go all-out at first ("Give yourselves space to grow, once you start taking classes").

So not only an updated chemistry set, metal detector, and comparison microscope, but also high-quality, second-hand photography gear and three short-wave private-band CBs, with permission to install them in two of the Center's cars and the war-room, for use only by the Blades. The chemistry supplies had included luminol, which Joe had been eager to test ever since reading about it as a kid but Dad had vetoed, concerned with just what his over-enthusiastic and inventive sons would do _to_ test it. They'd finally gotten a ventilation fan installed last week and had reworked the wiring to get overhead lighting to supplement the taskbars on the tables.

They were negotiating with Eli — the head of Bay Area Center — to get running water and a double-basin laundry-sink added. Eli was now checking to see if any other rooms in the Center would suit better; he'd argued that a permanent lab on that level should be open to all the Blades, and that Frank and Joe wouldn't want everyone tromping into their private rooms at all hours.

Best of all: the _books._ Sturdy bookshelves, built from wood salvaged from condemned buildings, now lined the free wall space. Frank was the book-hound, but Joe was gleeful over the collection they'd managed for the lab: Culliford's work on bloodstains, Kirk's _Crime Investigation_ , a near-complete collection of _The Journal of Forensic Science_ (discovered in a back corner of Green Apple, and the store manager had let it go for almost nothing), phone books from every area code in California, as well as everything they could remember that Dad had in his collection. One of the _Journals_ covered a new technique of fingerprint collecting — Superglue fuming — that Joe was dying to try, though figuring out how to do it without poisoning the entire building was a problem he hadn't solved, yet.

But the far corner of the lab wasn't for criminal forensics — at least, not _normal_ forensics.

A round oak coffee table was positioned in the exact middle of that space, with floor pillows around it. The table was inlaid with a design of lighter rowan: a double circle and the four basic elemental signs. Handmade beeswax candles sat at each of the quarter points, with the wax provided by the Center's beehives in the rooftop gardens. Small personal objects sat next to those candles, objects that had meaning and memory for both brothers: a turquoise horse from the Arizona Navajo reservation, flint arrowheads they'd chipped themselves as kids, an odd cream-and-brown feather that held a rainbow sheen in sunlight, a white pebble carved with odd runes, a rough clay cup in the shape of a phoenix.

A large abalone shell held a smoldering bundle of sage and cedar. Shelves to Joe's left held bottles of holy water, a shaker of salt, containers of powdered sandalwood, amber, frankincense, myrrh, and copal…and one special mason jar of powdered incense labeled "For Emergencies Only" that Kris had made for him.

 _("Asafetida, cayenne, garlic, dragon's blood," Kris had said. No smile, as usual. "Rue. Bit of myrrh. Good against demons, evil spirits, and tax collectors."_

" _And everything else, it sounds like," Frank had said, but Joe hadn't been sure Kris was joking.)_

The whole corner was warded heavily. Joshua and Kris had helped Joe set up the wards, with the boundaries demarcated on the floor with huge polished obsidian chunks (obtained from a pet store, of all places: Joe had found them in a bargain-box of aquarium decorations). The whole setup was crude and basic, compared to what Kris had back in her rooms, but it was a start.

In the center of the table, in the center of that circle with all the candles lit and the wards reinforced, lay the doll. It didn't look any better outside the burned ruins.

As far as Joe could tell, the cops in SFPD Inventory hadn't disturbed the baggies — if they had, they'd wrapped everything back up exactly as he had originally. Then again, baggies marked "used" and holding silk handkerchiefs…well, maybe they'd had an excuse to not open them.

The doll itself went beyond creepy: a crude approximation of an old man dressed in a business suit. Painted-on brown-eyes, gray hair glued to its scalp — real hair with its real color; Joe had confirmed that under the microscope. The skin had blistered and run in places; the porcelain head had blackened cracks running through it, the feet melted off. The tweed had other hairs on it, hairs that Joe had picked out with tweezers and found that they matched the others. But the hairs on the suit had been on the inside of the the cloth, against the wax skin.

Joe rubbed the fabric between his fingers: not seersucker or cheap polyester, but high-quality wool. So…had the cloth had been cut from a suit belonging to whoever this doll was targeted on?

He snipped a piece of the wool off and set it aside. Frank would test it for flame retardant later.

Touching the doll made Joe's skin crawl. The magic was blunt and crude, a sledgehammer of energy that pulsed sullen red to Joe's mage-Sight. But it didn't feel like mage-Gift, nor was it whatever had ignited the floor and walls of the janitor's closet. The signature was the same — all by the same hand, Joe was positive of that — but the energy on the doll was crude and splattered, as if it'd pounded in with big blocky letters. The ignition spots in the janitor's room had been elegant handwritten scrawls in comparison.

But…and it was a huge _but_ …the doll felt nothing like what Thatcher had done, nothing like what any of the Blades had shown him. No blood magic, no death magic, nothing powered by torture or murder.

So why did the doll feel so wrong?

The music dove way down in volume and dissolved into static. Joe sighed — the signal had cut out again — and pushed to his feet. Maybe he'd be lucky and KSAN would be broadcasting the new Rundgren album.

"Hey there, my Fluffy Evil Minion." Jamie stood in the doorway, grinning, and came in when Joe turned…though Jamie stopped at the obsidian chunks. She held up a pair of neon-green water pistols. "A certain Butterfly told me you might need these in your never-ending fight for Truth, Justice, and the American Way."

Trust Jamie to turn a bad day around. Joe always felt as if he stood in sunlight whenever he was with her, no matter the actual weather. "Which American Way are we talking about? Apache, Mojave, or Navajo?"

"Okay, Mr. Sarcasm — Truth, Justice, and All Things Cute and Fluffy." Jamie handed him the water pistols. "Including your wonderful self and those little fluff-balls in your brother's room. Which, by the way, _stinks._ Has he been sacrificing to Alice Cooper in there?"

"Moggie's sick. Kris ran her to the vet."

"I wondered why _Ritacita_ and Eme were there without —" But then Jamie glanced past him and went still. "Joe…?"

Joe twisted around to see what she was looking at. The doll? "Just my latest science project."

"I really hope you're joking." Shivering, Jamie had crossed her arms. "You're _not_ joking."

"Something me and Frank found in one of those burned buildings — Jamie?"

Face furrowed, biting her lip, Jamie only stared towards the doll.

Joe pushed himself to his feet, pulled her into his arms. "Hey. Earth to Jamie."

"Joe…that's _really_ bad. I wondered what was going on — I felt it all the way out in the living room."

Outside the wards. Joe scowled at the doll. One thing he was learning: there was no such thing as a standard Gift. There were commonalities, but each person had their own twists, quirks, and differences. Jamie was a good example: a 'path on the Empath side, with a visionary streak that she called soul-sight. She not only used it for her art, but had helped quite a few people with it — including Joe — to the point that she had dual-majored in Art and Psychology, with her intended graduate degree in Art Therapy.

"Okay, I'll get Josh to help me lock it down tighter later," Joe said. "Let me change and we can get out of here for dinner. Burn The Tail, my treat."

"So someone put a voodoo doll in those buildings?"

Joe relaxed against her, holding her close, reveling in her warmth. After the whole rotten day, he needed this. He needed _her._ "I don't know what it is. It's got a signature, but doesn't feel like mage-Gift at all."

Something changed: Joe felt it in the way Jamie straightened in his arms. She nodded at the table. "May I?"

Joe didn't want her anywhere near that thing. "I don't think that's a good idea, baby."

"Stop that." Jamie mock-glared at him. "You and Frank are trying to stop those arsons, right? You need to learn to ask for help when you're stumped, my Fluffy Cute Minion."

Joe breathed out. She'd had him worried when she'd gotten so serious. Back to the Evil Overlord stuff — the world was fine. Before he could answer, she'd pulled him into a long, deep kiss, pressing up against him until he moaned…but then she pulled away and went over to the table.

For a moment, Joe only stood there, trying to recover his senses — then he saw Jamie touch the doll with a single finger. She jerked back as if burnt.

"Jamie, don't." Joe tried to pull her away. "Leave it."

She shook him off, then laid her whole hand on the doll.

Joe wanted to smack her hand away and yank her out of the room — but if Jamie could give him more information, if she could figure out what was up with that doll…

 _Detective on the hunt_ warred with _protective Neanderthal boyfriend…_ and to Joe's utter self-disgust, the detective was winning. Arms crossed, he waited.

Then Jamie backed up, her hands in front of her face, breathing through them and staring at the doll.

Now Joe grabbed the container of salt, grabbed _her_ , and, balancing between crutch and girlfriend, he steered Jamie into the bathroom to shove her hand under running cold-water while simultaneously pouring salt over it.

"You don't mess around, do you?" Jamie said.

"You love scaring the daylights out of me, don't you?" Joe countered. The protective Neanderthal boyfriend had to make _some_ protest. It took a good five minutes before he was satisfied and let her dry her hand and arm off. "I should smudge you out with that 'For Emergencies' stuff and then shove you into the whole shower —"

"Oooo, that sounds like fun…"

"— with your clothes _on!"_

" _Joe!"_

"Don't _ever_ do that again! You know better. You _should_ know better! Magic like _that?!_ "

"Like you really tried to stop me. Nice try, Mr. Neanderthal."

Was this how Frank felt with Nancy, all the time? Eyes closed, Joe breathed out, counted to ten…then let it go. "Well?"

Jamie burst out laughing and pulled him into a close, snuggly hug. "My curious-er and curious-er detective-ish minion. My wonderful, wonderful Hercule Perry Holmes…"

Don't get sidetracked, don't get sidetracked. _"Jamie…"_

Breathing out a long, heavy sigh, Jamie relaxed against him, her head bent against his chest. She stayed like that, rocking — which was wonderful in and of itself, but she hadn't answered his question. Then Joe realized she was trembling, with small, gulping catches to her breathing.

"Jamie…?"

Wiping at her face, she choked back a quiet sob.

Oh God. Joe shifted to wrap his arms around her shoulders and waist, holding her close and comforting. "Shhhhh. Easy, baby. It's okay. I'm here."

Slowly, murmuring soothing nonsense, Joe walked her back to his room (leaning on her for support as much as she leaned on him), sat down on the bed with her, and pulled one of the comforters up and around them both. A warm, safe, comfortable space, just as she did for him whenever he had the nightmares. Just the two of them, holding on and being held.

Movement caught his eye: little Rita stood wide-eyed at the door of his room. "Stay with the kittens, please, honey," Joe said to her. "Watch them until Kris comes back, okay?"

Rita looked dubious, but nodded and ran back to Frank's room. Joe heard her babble something in Spanish at Eme, but tuned it out and focused back on Jamie.

Finally, Jamie breathed out another heavy sigh. "Sorry," she whispered. "It's just…God. Whoever made that thing — it's horrible, it's awful, it's…it's…" A deep, shuddering breath. "Oh… _Joe…"_

Now wasn't the time to say _I told you so._ Joe rocked her, gentle and slow. "Talk to me, baby. What happened?"

Another gulp of air. "I…I mean…I was here when Mar first brought Kris in. I was thirteen. None of us kids knew what the big deal was, just that all the adults were really mad, and they wouldn't tell any of us what was going on." Head bowed, Jamie took in another deep breath. "Mar was so _angry._ I'd never seen her so angry before."

What did this have to do with the doll?

But Joe held his irritation back. He had to be patient. Let her talk. Empaths worked like that. They related to feelings, and it took time for them to work things out, especially if the emotions were overwhelming. Keep her grounded; keep her feeling safe. That was the important part.

"I love you," Jamie whispered.

Gently Joe kissed the top of her head. "I know Josh knew her back then. I didn't know you did."

"I was born here. Mom's the granddaughter of one of the founders. Anyway…we were playing kickball out back. I was mad because Marcos kept yanking my ponytail and we'd caught Cari cheating with her TK and stupid stuff like that. And then Kris came out. She was so _scared._ Just us kids, and she was scared out of her mind. But Cari kinda took charge and we were teaching her how to play…"

"Kickball?" Who didn't know how to play kickball?

Jamie nodded. "She wasn't any good. Not at kicking, anyway. Cari kicked and Kris did the running — Cari had a broken leg. She wasn't supposed to play, but she never listened."

Joe smiled. Cari was another of the Blades now.

Sniffling, Jamie wiped at her face again. "Anyway, we lost. I still think Cari was cheating — sorry. You don't care about that. Anyway…we were going down to the café for hot dogs — they were grilling out that day, and the whole place smelled good. Like Candlestick Park when you're walking past the hotdog stands."

"I know. Me and Frank used to beg Dad for 'em whenever he took us to Fenway."

Jamie hugged him tighter. "Yeah. Exactly. But then this car pulled up. Where the slope meets the road out there, right at the bend. One of those station wagons with the fake wood crap on the side and it made this scrunchy grinding noise. And a couple people got out. The man…" Jamie shuddered.

Stroking her hair, Joe waited the silence out.

"He was _huge,_ and he stunk, and he was screaming all this awful stuff about…about whores and…and…Satan, and he hit Kris and he kept hitting her, and…and I just stood there…"

"You were a kid," Joe said softly. As a child, he'd run into Kris's father; Joe never wanted to again. "Just a kid."

"I know," Jamie whispered. "But he felt… _God._ All this stuff I was seeing, it was all mixed up with…with…sex. Him…and…and…oh _god,_ he was _insane._ And Kris made this sound…" Shivering, Jamie stopped.

Kris had never told him and Frank this. Joe had known that her original parents had caused problems out here and that was why Mar had moved to the Boston area, but he hadn't known this particular story. Still…

"Mar and everyone came running, even Josh, and he was only seventeen. Uncle Harold tackled the man and Josh got Kris inside — I didn't see her after that. She hid in her room until Mar moved away." Jamie bowed her head. "I couldn't face her…I was such a coward…"

"You were just a kid, baby." Joe stroked her hair, rocking her back and forth, slow and gentle. "And here you are now, a warm, wonderful, compassionate woman…"

Jamie took a deep breath, then another. "But…that doll. That's what it feels like. That's what I get from it. Like that man. Like Kris, back then. Rage and hate and fear, all mixed in with sex. So bad I can't breathe, I can't do _anything_. All of it from a little kid's view, like that man's grabbing me and I can't move…and he's hurting me, and I…I…" Jamie choked off, her shoulders shaking and face buried against his chest.

Thinking that over, Joe rocked her, waiting for the emotional storm to die down. "So…you're saying that doll isn't magic, just emotion?"

Jamie shook her head. "It's magic. But real primitive, from our monkey-brain." She hiccuped; Joe touched her nose, a gentle love- _beep_ that called up a tremulous, shaky smile. "And it works. Psychologists are using things like it to help abused kids. Like a game of _let's pretend._ Pretend this doll is whoever hurt you, hate it, hit it…"

"But it's just emotion," Joe said slowly, trying to understand.

"Emotion can do a lot of damage. Being on the constant receiving end of that hate…" Jamie looked down. "I mean, like, what you've told me about what your dad's been like. That's 'just emotion' — can you really say you and Frank aren't hurt by it?"

Joe looked away.

"Grandmama says that dolls are the most basic human magic there is." Jamie curled against him in the warmth of the comforter. "That much emotion _becomes_ magic. Rage, hate, pain, all focused on a target…" She sounded a bit sleepy.

A target connected intimately with hair and clothes. The law of contagion…

Joe let himself relax, still thinking, Jamie in his arms. Maybe the target of the arsons wasn't the actual businesses, then. It had to be a person — Joe couldn't see doll magic being used against a corporation, not when specific hair and clothing had been used. But only one person was connected with all three buildings, as far as Joe knew.

Weldon Rathbone…


	14. Wildcat Swamp

_A/N: Thanks to Leyapearl, Xenitha (hey, I've been saying it's that Jamie since Vampire!), Caranath, MoonlightGypsy, AlecTowser, and DuffyBarkley for the reviews & comments!  
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Exasperating, frustrating, irritating, aggravating — every single last word fit several times over to the _nth_ degree, and Frank could add a whole thesaurus more to the list. It was his and Joe's case, Nancy had been snooping in his papers, and _she_ accused _him_ of interfering in her case.

On top of that, Nancy was shielded, according to Joe. She hadn't said anything when Mar had mentioned the Association, so it followed that Nancy wasn't part of it. Maybe it was all innocent. Maybe there was a simple explanation…but "innocent" and "simple" had been ripped from Nancy's particular thesaurus a long time ago.

No such thing as coincidence.

Breathing out, Frank let his irritation go. He had to stay calm. Getting angry would only give Nancy the advantage. He got off the Muni two blocks from the hotel; it was down on Market Street near the Tenderloin district: tall, plain, unremarkable save for a rusting fire escape and dirty tan bricks. For a long moment, Frank stared up at it, unable to believe that Nancy was staying hereor that any travel agency had even considered it.

People were bundled up against the buildings all along this street — though that wasn't unusual in San Francisco. Grimy and run-down, the hotel entrance was sandwiched between a cheap sub shop and a liquor store with steel roll-downs covering its front windows. Right next door was a theater advertising " _LIVE NUDE SHOWS!"_ in big red letters on the marquee and posters of near-naked women splashed across the box office.

Nancy had probably been real happy about that.

As Frank watched, a limo pulled up in front of the hotel. He couldn't see in the limo's smoked windows, but given the theater right there, he didn't want to. Business-as-usual, unfortunately: male visitors tended to cut loose once they found out about the San Francisco sex scene. Shaking his head, Frank went in the hotel. About what he'd expected — just as grimy and run-down as its facade, everything with an air of dis-use, as if the owners had ceased caring. The lobby stunk of mildew, and the front desk clerk glared when she realized Frank was going to give her something to do.

"I'm here to see Nancy Drew," Frank said. "She's staying here."

Frank wasn't Gifted, but it was easy to see the woman's thoughts in her face and posture as she put her Harlequin book down, yawned, and pulled the register book over: _get rid of him fast, go back to book._ But rather than look up the names herself, she only shoved the register at Frank.

No use protesting. Frank opened the book, skimmed the list: checked in just over an hour ago, Room 712.

Given the decrepit state of the fire escape outside and what he'd seen so far, Frank wasn't about to risk the elevator. But seven flights of stairs in a stairwell that stunk of urine…stop, he told himself firmly. He'd climbed twenty flights in a burned-out shell stinking of char and smoke, after all. At least these weren't going to crumble away beneath him — hopefully.

The seventh-floor hallway itself was clean, if shabby. Frank knocked on the door of 712, and a muffled "one moment" answered. He heard shuffling and thumps, then the door opened — Nancy froze, then settled into an arms-crossed glare. Her hair was damp, her neck wrapped with a towel, and she'd changed into jeans and a red-striped pullover, with an elegant copper-wrapped quartz pendant hanging from a silver chain around her neck.

"If you open the door to just anyone here, you're not as smart as you think you are," Frank said before Nancy could open her mouth. "So are you going to let me in, or am I going to end up on the receiving end of a judo throw?"

"Are you always this polite?"

Take the high ground. "Not really. Not when I'm dealing with someone who's here under false pretenses."

" _I'm_ using false pretenses?"

" _You're_ the one who snooped in my papers. You made a lot of groundless accusations against me and Joe without giving us any chance to explain." Go for the jugular. "And you're shielded."

Blank non-comprehension. "I'm _what?"_

Not that Frank believed it. He took a step forward, making Nancy step back — though she did so in defensive stance. "Are you going to let me in?"

Outrage and curiosity warred on her face; curiosity evidently won out. Nancy stepped back further, gestured him in.

"Real nice," Frank said, looking around; the room matched the rest of the hotel in shabbiness. "This gig must be paying you real well."

"Did you come all the way out here just to irritate me? Because you're doing a great job of it."

Good, that made two of them. "You came all the way out here to spy on me and Joe. That deserves a lot more than irritation."

" _I'm_ spying? _You're_ the one who searched my bags!"

She hadn't denied it outright. Interesting. "I did not. Joe and I are working on something at the request of a friend in the fire department."

"Oh, right. SFFD hired two unlicensed _amateurs_ to investigate arson. Try again."

"Maybe you missed what Mar said. About AHRD Security being a _fully licensed private investigator firm._ We work for them. Unless you have your own license, we're just as professional as you are." Rub it in, just a little. "Probably more so, because we're being paid _._ "

Scowling, Nancy said nothing.

"Now if what we're doing crosses whatever your dad's working on, then it's coincidence, because I have no idea what that is," Frank said. "Other than spying on us, of course."

"Look, I don't know where you're getting this idea —"

"You're shielded," Frank cut her off. "Two different people confirmed it. It's not your shield, which means someone placed it on you, with or without your permission. Which means you know someone who's Gifted." So much for the plan to keep quiet and let Nancy make all the moves, but Frank wanted to shock her out of her cover story.

"Gifted." Arms still crossed, still scowling. "Should I ask what you mean by that?"

"Don't tell me you're going to deny it." Frank paused. "You are. You're really going to deny it."

"Only when it sounds totally _insane._ "

 _Sounds,_ not _is_. Still no denial. Time for a shot in the dark. "So what did Harry Hammond tell you about us?"

Score. Nancy stiffened, her face going wooden.

"He asked you to spy on the Association, too." Frank already knew the answer.

"Wow," Nancy said. "All this out of me being 'shielded'. Whatever that means. You must really trust these people, if you're so set on making a fool out of yourself."

"You haven't denied a single thing I've said."

"I wasn't aware I needed to deny something that's totally insane!"

Still no denial. She hadn't even asked who Hammond was. "Calling my accusation insane isn't the same as denying it, and you know it, Miss Daughter-of-a-Lawyer." Frank had to admit, he was enjoying this. "So what did Hammond tell you?"

"Look, I don't know where you got this idea that I'm spying on you. You're the one who's interfering in my father's case!"

Something occurred to Frank — something she'd asked when she'd first seen Joe. _Are you guys in trouble?_ "Hammond approached me and Joe, too, right before we came out here. He made a lot of insinuations, and none of them were true. He did the same to you, didn't he?" Frank watched her. "He told you we'd been recruited. That we were part of some subversive cult."

Nancy said nothing. Answer enough.

"Well?" Frank said. "Do I _act_ like a brainwashed cultist? No one asked where I was going — no one cared. No one stopped you from leaving, either."

"You're here," Nancy said. "You followed me."

"You told me the name of the hotel when you called with your flight information," Frank reminded her. "San Francisco does have phone books."

"That's not what I meant!"

"Look, whatever your dad's working on, _I don't know and don't care._ " Frank waited, then, when she didn't respond, "You're smarter than this, Nancy. The only reason you would run away like that is that you were scared."

"Scared." Nancy's tone dripped scorn. "I'm surprised you got your head through that sweater with that ego."

Not answering any of his questions, using insults to try to get him mad and draw him out…she was better at this than Frank had thought. Maybe best to do an end-run around the whole thing and short-circuit the argument. "Look…you're angry because you think I searched your dad's papers — which I didn't — and I'm angry because you searched _my_ papers, which you admitted to. How about we both admit there's been a misunderstanding, and I take you to dinner?"

Surprise flashed across her face. Whatever she'd been expecting him to say, that hadn't been it.

"If you don't want to, that's fine." Frank turned as if to go. "That sub shop downstairs looked real tasty."

"If that's all you can afford, I'll pass."

Breathe. Stay calm. "No, I was thinking of a Japanese place over in the Castro"

Nancy studied him a moment. "Only if you explain the whole _shielded, Gifted,_ and _Association_ things you were harping on."

Well, he'd handed her the opening, and information-pumping could work both ways. "Over dinner," Frank said firmly. "I'm starved and I've had a really bad day with the cops, after all."

Nancy had the grace to blush at that. "Let me get my hair dried."

Frank nodded. "I'll wait downstairs." Give them both time to cool down and shake loose. Not to mention being outside was preferable to that stuffy hotel room and the mess masquerading as a lobby. He made it outside with a sigh of relief and squinted up: still a clear sky, no sign of fog or rain. Good. He also noted that the limo from earlier was still there, though a couple white men in suits and sunglasses now leaned against it, smoking cigarettes and watching the hotel doors — one looked exactly like the type of guy who'd troll for meat in front of a porn theater: balding, thick mustache, bit of a paunch, dressed in an expensive suit so women would hopefully think _money_ and not focus on any shortcomings.

Great. Just what Nancy would enjoy seeing: rich pervs out for a night on the drag.

"Hey, white boy, slummin' again?"

Frank looked around — it was one of the street people he knew: an older man with tangled dark hair and heavy beard sat bundled against the bricks with a couple of his buddies. "Hey, Miguel. Yeah, you could say that." Frank nodded up at the hotel. "Waiting for my date."

Miguel burst into wheezing laughter. "Word's that you and your brother got busted over on Union. Truth?"

News went fast around the street folks. Frank walked over and squatted down to their level. "Yeah, unfortunately. Little chilly out here for chatting, though."

"Mig?" one of the others mumbled. "Whozzat?

"He's cool," Miguel said. "He's with Josh's crew." To Frank, "You after those fires? Figured your crew would be. They ain't right, none of them."

"We know. Kids got killed in that last one. We're looking into it."

"Heard about them kids," Miguel said, and fell silent.

Frank sighed, with another glance up at the hotel. "I'd offer coffee and subs so we could warm up a bit and chat, but I was serious about my date. She's not the type you keep waiting." That got another wheezing laugh from Miguel. Frank dug a ten out of his pocket and handed it to him. "I need to hear the news. You and your buddies get some subs and coffee so they won't run you off, and when I get back, I'll treat for more so we can talk. Deal?"

Miguel didn't answer right away; Frank didn't blame him. For someone like Frank to offer such trust to a street person like Miguel was unheard of…but "Josh's crew" did exactly that. "Coffee there sucks," Miguel said finally.

"We can hit up Connor's."

That particular bakery offered free coffee at their back window. It didn't hurt that the staff made "mistakes" that made various baked goods unsalable to customers, but still perfectly edible and handed out along with the free coffee. But then Miguel whistled, grinning to show his missing teeth. "Hooo, that your woman? You got lucky, boy."

Nancy had just come out of the hotel and stopped, staring at the sight of Frank talking to a group of homeless men. Frank only smiled, offered his hand to Miguel — Miguel returned it with a soul-shake, then settled back against the bricks to accept the cigarette being passed between his buddies as Frank stood up.

"Let's go," Frank said to Nancy. "Muni stop's this way."

"You didn't drive?"

The suits leaning against the limo had straightened, staring at Nancy…then at Frank. White, in suits, and in this neighborhood made it unlikely they were gang-members. Expressionless, Frank shifted his stance just enough: a wordless _don't mess with her or me_.

Both suits casually settled back against the limo; one of its windows cracked open and the suits turned to talk in low voices. At that, Frank dismissed them: suits in this neighborhood were likely waiting for a prostitute…or worse. "You can't pay me enough to deal with downtown parking," Frank said to Nancy. He looked her over: slacks, sensible shoes — no heels. Good.

Nancy returned it with a _look_ of her own. "Do I meet your approval?"

"You could say that. C'mon."

But Nancy's attention had been caught by the limo. "Bit rich for the neighborhood, there."

Frank took hold of her arm. "Not here. _Move."_ By some miracle, Nancy actually held her silence and followed his lead — until they were halfway to the Muni stop and out of earshot of the limo, anyway. But when she jerked out of Frank's grip, he didn't give her a chance to protest.

"Don't stare at guys like that," Frank said, quiet matter-of-fact. "Especially down here. They were trolling for hookers. Or they're waiting for _other_ business, and I'm not trained to deal with that."

Nancy looked away. "Sorry. I'm still rattled, I guess. The Apple's horrible for that stuff, too."

Frank nodded. "Treat it like you would in New York, and you'll be fine."

From there the chat stayed small, mostly Nancy asking about things they passed on the Muni ride to Castro Street. But she kept glancing at the other passengers, especially the ones closest to them — Frank kept his sigh strictly internal. He could see her questions building; this was just a temporary lull in the storm.

Castro Street was already crowded, typical Friday early evening: folks lining up outside the cinema, hanging around the various cafes, waiting to get into the clubs. Burn The Tail wasn't too busy; Frank glanced at his watch. Still a bit early for dinner rush.

"Here?" Nancy said in an undertone, as they stood in the elegant lobby of polished wood and hanging Japanese _sumi-e_. "Are you sure?"

Frank only smiled; he wasn't about to let her bait him that easily. The hostess came back, Frank had a quiet word (slipping a couple bills onto the podium), and they were taken to one of the back tables. The restaurant itself was a calm sweep of polished wood and burnished metal, with one entire wall taken up by an enormous aquarium filled with goldfish and exotic coral. Their table was screened by a wood-and-rice-paper _shoji_ , just right for a private chat.

"There's no rush," Frank said to Nancy as they sat down. "And order whatever you like. I really recommend the _akachan no tako_ for an appetizer, though _._ " That was the baby octopus, grilled & served over marinated seaweed. Maybe Joe and Jamie would show up in time to enjoy the show.

Nancy just looked at him. When the waitress stopped by to give them water and take their initial drink order, Nancy gave Frank the smallest of smiles and then, to the waitress, "The tempura squid, please, to start. With extra tentacle parts."

Frank had been taking a drink of water, somehow managed not to choke.

"Care for round two?" Nancy said sweetly, after the waitress left.

"Hey, good-looking, am I interrupting?"

Frank looked up; a chunky Japanese man dressed in white chef duds peered around the corner of the _shoji_ screen. "Not at all, Godz. This is Nancy Drew — Nancy, Ryuu Tanaka, a.k.a. Gozilla. He's Josh's mate and one of the chefs here."

" _Gojira,"_ Nancy said, smiling.

Godzilla blinked. _"Another_ aficionado? Wow, Frank, you're finally developing good taste. I saw you come in so I snuck a bit of a break. Had to let you know the _maguro_ 's only okay tonight, but the _hamache, sake,_ and _hotatagai_ are simply _divine —"_

Nancy said something that made Godzilla stare at her…then he broke into a wide grin, and the two started talking in Japanese. Frank sat there, trying not to look completely lost, until Nancy shook her head at something Godzilla said and switched to English.

"I'm not that good yet, sorry. Daddy's trying to find a better tutor."

" _Really_ good taste," Godzilla said, still grinning, to Frank. "Maybe she'll finally civilize you." Someone called something out from near the sushi bar, and Godzilla sighed. "Duty calls. I'll let the waitress know you're friends so she'll clue me which stuff's yours." He winked and scurried off.

Frank wasn't going to react. He was simply going to wait for an explanation.

Nancy smiled. "Japan's expanding its business interests in NYC. Daddy doesn't want to rely on their translators, so I'm taking classes." Her smile widened to a wicked grin. "Need help translating the menu?"

Now Frank laughed. "All right, I surrender. Though the baby octopus was Joe's idea — he was going to pay for dinner if I got you to order it."

"We can get a to-go order and take it back just for him."

That was an idea. With a bit of luck and a bit of conspiracy with Jamie, maybe they'd end up with a tale to eclipse the one about the grapes. But Frank wasn't about to let Nancy in on that particular story. Not yet, anyway.

"Now that _I've_ explained," Nancy said, _"you've_ got some explaining to do."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "I do?"

"Arsons." Nancy lowered her voice. "Association. Shields. Gifted. _Now."_ When Frank said nothing, she gave him a _look._ "I'm not stupid. You can't tell me it's coincidence that you're looking into the same businesses I am, Hardy."

 _There's no such thing as coincidence._ It was one of the Blades' run-rules. "And I have no clue what businesses you're looking at, _Drew._ " Frank fell silent for a moment. It wouldn't hurt to give her the bare-bones; maybe it did tie in, somehow. "The only 'business' thing I know is that all of the buildings _so far_ are owned by the Rathbone Foundation. Joe found that out today, and we passed it on to SFFD. We're just looking into the arsons, that's it."

"Really."

" _Really._ But if these arsons tie in to what you're doing, then you'd better talk to Matt. He's our contact with the SFFD."

"You really expect me to believe they hired _you_ for that?"

"Pardon me, are you Nancy Drew?" The waitress had come back to their table; she looked apologetic.

"Yes?" Nancy said.

"There's a phone call for you up front. The caller said he's your father."

Nancy looked startled. "Daddy? Calling here?"

"Joe knew I was taking you here," Frank reminded her. "If your dad called our place, Joe would've given him the number. Go on."

"We're not done with our chat," Nancy said as she got up. "You're not getting out of it that easy."

"Neither are you," Frank said.

She gave him another _look_ , but followed the waitress to the front. Frank blew out a breath. Exasperating, irritating, annoying, all of that, plus _too quick, too_ _sharp…_

And beautiful. And intelligent. Yeah. He couldn't forget that part. Trying to relax, Frank settled back and watched the goldfish in the wall aquarium. He was now regretting he'd let slip the _shields_ and _Gifted_ part. No one at the Center would be happy if Frank broke their privacy, especially if Hammond was involved.

Oh, yeah. Hammond. Frank had meant to press Nancy about that first thing, but she'd sidetracked him _again._

Shrieks erupted from the front of the restaurant —

— followed by a gunshot.

Frank shoved to his feet and charged through the sudden chaos, dodging around tables and waiters, panicked customers scrambling away from the front, people cowering in the lobby, the hostess screaming for the manager —

Nancy wasn't anywhere in sight.

A yelled _"Frank!"_ jerked his gaze up. Through the glass doors, Frank caught sight of struggling, a car door slamming, and he charged out —

— in time to see a black limo with smoked windows speed away.


	15. Mark on the Door

_AN: Thanks to Caranath, AlecTowser, DuffyBarkley, Xenitha, & "Guest" for the reviews! Also a shout-out to Tara & Christina from Facebook - thanks for the compliments, folks!  
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Jamie insisted on using one of the junkers, even though they were going to Burn The Tail — managing the Muni on a Friday evening in the Castro wouldn't be fun at all with Joe on a crutch, and he finally agreed, though it meant parking two blocks away and walking the rest. Despite what had happened earlier, it was a gorgeous day, and hopefully it'd continue into a gorgeous night, and…

"Joe," Jamie said.

That jolted Joe out of his thoughts; he pulled up short. Two cop cars, a SWAT van, and an ambulance, flashing lights, a crowd of people jabbering in panic…a KABC camera crew…

…right in front of Burn The Tail.

"Oh no," Joe breathed and headed for the restaurant as fast as he could manage between crutch and limp. Godzilla was supposedly working tonight — a SWAT van and an ambulance was not good, not in the Castro on a Friday night…oh dear God, don't let Godzilla have been hurt…

But Joe pulled up short again as he hit the edge of the milling, babbling people. Visibly agitated, Frank was sitting on the back seat of one of the open cop cars, bent over his knees and talking to an officer. Nancy wasn't anywhere in sight.

"You really know how to make a date exciting, my Fluffy Minion," Jamie said, behind Joe.

"Stay here." Joe pushed through the crowd. Jamie would be safe enough. Whatever had happened was over if the cops were wasting time on interviews, and it was _really_ not good if Frank was losing his cool.

The movement caught Frank's attention. He saw Joe, then said something to the officer, who scowled in Joe's direction.

Uh-oh.

But the officer gestured. _Get over here._

Double uh-oh. Joe went into full-bore _pathetic-cripple_ mode, leaning heavily on his crutch while trying to minimize his limp at the same time. Cops could spot exaggerated injuries a mile away; Dad had proved that to both brothers before they'd gotten out of kindergarten.

"You his brother?" the officer said.

Joe nodded. "Joe Hardy."

"And you just happen to be here why?"

"I'm with my girlfriend." Joe tried to keep his voice even. "Over there. We're meeting my brother and his girlfriend for dinner."

Frank coughed, then tapped his closed mouth firmly with the side of his fist: _shut up._

Definitely not good. "Nancy didn't come with you?" Joe said.

That earned Joe a brief glare, but no answer. "Am I free to go?" Frank said to the officer.

The officer stared down at him for a long moment. "Stay put. I'll be right back." With that, the officer went to one of the other cars to speak into the CB.

"Well?" Joe said quietly, mindful of other cops and the reporters interviewing people in the crowd nearby.

Deflating, Frank seemed to age years. "Nancy was grabbed."

" _What?"_ Joe caught himself, lowered his voice. The camera crew was panning the crowd; Joe turned his back towards it. "Who? _Why?"_

"If I knew _that_ —" Frank shut up, blew out another breath.

"Let me guess." Joe nodded at the officer, who was still watching them despite talking on the radio. "Our little adventure this afternoon's causing problems."

Frank just looked at him. Answer enough. Joe gripped his brother's shoulder, waited with him until the officer came back.

"You're free to go," the officer said through clenched teeth, but as Frank was getting to his feet, added, "We'll be in touch. Don't leave town." The officer paused. "That goes for both of you."

Frank said nothing.

"You need to work on your intimidation clichés a bit more," Joe snapped, then yelped when Frank shoved him.

"Shut up," Frank growled. "Move."

Biting his words back, Joe held his peace until they made it through the crowd. "We brought a junker," Joe said, as Jamie caught up to them.

"Good," Frank said. "Because we're headed back to Nancy's hotel. I need to know what she was working on, and I need it now."

"Like hell. You're _both_ going to get something to eat." Jamie planted herself directly in front of Frank and stopped him when he tried to shove past her. "No, mister, you are _not_ going to hare off half-cocked like my Fluffy Minion here does."

"Full-cocked, actually," Joe said.

"No matter what happened, you can take fifteen minutes to grab food," Jamie went on, glaring into Frank's face. "I'm picking _that_ up from you real clear, Evil Brother Minion. Passing out from lack of food won't help whatever's going on one bit."

Both Frank and Jamie glared each other down…and suddenly Frank sagged. "God, God, _God…_ "

"Okay," Joe said, giving Jamie's hand a quick squeeze: a silent _thanks._ "Jamie's right. Let's grab a burger and you tell me what happened."

But Frank didn't even want to take the time to stand and eat near the hot dog cart — Joe shook his head when Jamie tried to protest; Joe knew his brother too well. Once Frank latched on to a mystery, he followed it through to the end, no matter the cost, no matter where it led, no matter what it uncovered. Sleep and food were secondary considerations when that happened.

Yet Frank stayed quiet all through the walk back to the junker. It wasn't until they were in the car and Jamie was navigating through the Castro and the Tenderloin that Frank finally spoke.

"I was right there. _I was right there and I couldn't do anything."_ Running a hand through his hair, Frank started telling the whole story.

Not that there was much. The limo's plates had been covered up, the windows smoked, the men in stocking hats that covered their faces and brandishing guns, according to the people waiting in Burn The Tail's lobby.

"Because of us?" Joe said, confused, when Frank's words wound down. They hadn't really _done_ anything in their case yet.

Frank shook his head. "I don't see how. We haven't gotten anywhere with…with…" He glanced at Jamie.

"She knows," Joe said. "She helped me with the doll."

Now Frank raised an eyebrow. Joe only returned it with his own innocent expression.

"Stop it," Frank snapped. "I'm not in the mood for games."

Joe sighed. "Sorry." He went over what Jamie had found with the doll — Jamie adding her corrections and filling in gaps — and Joe's own idea about Rathbone being the connection between the doll and fires. By the time he finished, Frank was shaking his head again.

"It makes no sense. Carson wouldn't — _couldn't_ — be investigating the fires. And the FBI doesn't handle arsons, so Hammond can't be involved with those." Frank sighed. "If he _is_ involved. I couldn't get a straight answer out of Nancy at all."

"Maybe there's something else going on," Joe said. "Communist activity? He's supposed to be an expert on subversive stuff, after all. Maybe Rathbone's been selling out."

Eyes closed, Frank leaned back in the car seat. "And Nancy was adamant that we were snooping in her papers and messing around with her case. It has to be linked. She wouldn't get that mad unless there was something to be mad about."

Jamie had found an open parking spot across the street from the hotel. Joe stopped her from getting out.

"Go back to the Center, baby. Call Wings and let Josh know what's happened. We'll take the Muni back."

Jamie cocked her head. "You left out an important part, my Evil Minions. What are you doing?"

"Searching her hotel room," Frank said.

"Should I tell Kris, too? You want her and Josh down here?"

Joe saw his brother's face at that moment: something had occurred to Frank, _hard._ But then Frank's expression smoothed over.

"No." Frank turned away. "We'll be done by the time they get here."

Joe followed Frank across the street, but stopped in front of the hotel. The area was a couple steps up from slum. Compared to Castro Street, it was distinctly un-busy: a trio of homeless folks bundled up in a shapeless huddle of clothes and blankets against the side of the building, passing cars, a few pedestrians in a hurry to get through the area as fast as possible, someone in the theater's ticket booth with his face buried in a magazine.

No one paid any attention to what happened here, for good reason. Nothing here was worth anyone's attention.

"Frank…it doesn't make sense," Joe said slowly. "You said the limo was right there. So why didn't they grab her here? Look at this place — no one would _care."_

Now Frank stopped. "Maybe because I was with her. They didn't want to tangle with someone who would fight back." Frank looked at the homeless folks, hesitated, then looked up at the hotel. "I want to search her room before the cops get here. Move."

No arguing with Frank when he was like this. The hotel lobby was musty and worn; the clerk didn't even look up from her book as the brothers passed. The elevator stunk, and Joe hesitated before getting in — but he really didn't feel like climbing multiple flights of stairs again today.

Though from the look on Frank's face, if Joe continued to balk at the elevator, he'd find himself _carried_.

Best not push it.

"You realize that removing evidence will get the cops back on our cases," Joe said as they got out at the seventh floor. Despite the elevator, his legs were feeling the strain from the whole day. He'd gotten a lot better since being at Bay Area, but today was definitely pushing his limits.

"I'm not removing anything. I just want to look —" Frank's words cut off.

The door of Nancy's room was cracked open.

Both brothers froze, listening: no sound in the room. With a glance at Joe, Frank shoved the door open.

Neither brother spoke for a long moment.

Frank finally broke the silence. "So that's why."

The room was wrecked: drawers pulled out, luggage emptied, mattress shoved aside, bed linens pulled off. "They wanted time to search the room," Joe said, staring around the mess. "If they'd grabbed her here, the cops would be up here first thing."

It made horrible, deadly sense. Watch for Nancy to leave, send someone to search her room while the rest followed her and grabbed her at the next opportunity. That would tie the cops up at the kidnapping spot taking witness statements, and by the time the cops got around to searching Nancy's stuff, any incriminating paperwork in Nancy's belongings would be gone.

"Magic?" Frank said, and when Joe only looked at him, sighed. "You _said_ she was shielded. So it's either because of us or because of what she was working on."

Joe hadn't meant it like that — hearing Frank treat the spooky stuff as real hadn't fully settled into Joe's worldview. But Joe settled against the door frame and relaxed his eyes to invoke mage-sight to look over the room. "Nothing obvious. Wait here."

He eased in to the middle of the room and let his shields slip enough to get the feel of it. Whoever had searched the place wouldn't have left traps in a public hotel room, but caution never hurt. "It's clear. Any idea what we're looking for?"

Now Frank came in. "Papers. Notebooks. Anything that looks odd."

The searchers had been thorough. Even the unusual hiding places — undersides of drawers, back of the headboard, framed wall art — had been gone over. Spotting a pair of dress-gloves on the floor, Joe tossed one to Frank: a bit small, but better than searching barehanded and leaving fingerprints. Joe checked behind the bureau and started sorting through the clothes, but didn't hold out much hope. This had all the earmarks of a professional…

"Here," Frank said suddenly. He was peering under the bed, then reached and pulled out a small orange notebook, flipped through it. "Hers. She must've dropped it."

But flashing red-and-blue lights outside the window had caught Joe's gaze. "Frank…"

Frank glanced, then shoved the notebook inside his jacket. "Figures. C'mon. Stairs."

Then another car pulled up behind the cops, a dark blue Plymouth. Two men in suits got out, and Joe pulled back just in time as one of the suits glanced up.

Hammond.

" _Joe,"_ Frank said.

Biting his lip, Joe caught up and didn't argue the pace that Frank set: walking, not running — running was the sure-fire way to get noticed. But Joe pulled his brother to a stop the moment they got inside the stairwell and resisted Frank's pull to _keep going._ If ever they needed magic to work — there was no way Joe could outrun the police, and getting caught here would not be good. "Mouse-trick," Joe breathed.

Frank's pull changed to a shoulder-grip, firm and calming. Joe breathed the energy out, waited until he was sure it had taken hold, then nodded.

"Okay," Frank said quietly. "Stairs all the way down. I don't want to run into any cops on the way up."

"Hammond's out there, too." Joe cracked a smile at Frank's sigh. "Can't have anything too easy. We'd get lazy."

"Just for that, you can walk home."

"But how'd he get here so fast? He can't have heard about the kidnapping this soon."

"Unless he was here already." Frank started heading down the stairs. "And involved in whatever Nancy was doing."

Frank had said it earlier: the FBI didn't investigate arsons. Joe opened his mouth, but now Frank glared.

"Sound carries really good in stairwells," Frank said mildly. From out in the hallway, Joe heard the _ding_ of the elevator.

Point made. Joe focused back on the mouse-trick: no telling if any of the cops would take the stairs. But they made it to the ground floor and lobby without incident. A cop was taking a statement from the desk clerk; another stood by the elevator. None spared more than a glance at the brothers.

Hammond wasn't in sight, which meant he had to be in Nancy's room. Joe glanced back at the hotel as he and Frank headed for the Muni stop — it made no sense. Why would the FBI have been using someone like Nancy or even be involved this fast…?

But then Frank stopped, staring towards the homeless folks bundled against the wall outside the hotel. Two cops knelt by those pathetic bundles of clothing…and Joe stopped, too, when one of the bundles fell over, limp and unmoving.

Dead.

"My God," Frank whispered and started towards the bodies, as one of the cops headed for the cars.

Joe grabbed his brother. "What are you doing? Are you _nuts?"_

The remaining cop glanced in their direction. Frank shook Joe off. "Those — that's Miguel. I can't just —"

Joe planted his crutch in front of Frank's legs: if Frank tried shoving past, he'd find himself face-down on the pavement. "You _can,"_ Joe said, in a low, low voice. "Because if you don't, we'll be right back downtown with some very humorless suits asking us questions that we can't answer."

The cop was now watching them. "Problems, gentlemen?"

So much for the mouse-trick. "No, sir," Joe said. "I'm trying to convince my idiot brother here that you don't get involved in stuff in the big city just because you want to help."

" _Joe…"_

"Listen to him, son." The cop sounded grimly amused. "You can't help here unless you're Jesus, and He don't make house calls."

"Don't say a word," Joe said to Frank, lowering his voice even more. "Us getting dragged in won't help Nancy or them. _Move_."

Frank hesitated, then gave in, backed off, and headed for the Muni stop. Joe followed close; he glanced back to make sure they were out of earshot before he spoke again.

"Okay. What was that about?"

His jaw set, Frank didn't answer until they were at the Muni stop. "The dead guys. Miguel and his buddies."

Joe knew the name vaguely — he'd been introduced to so many street people in the last month, it was hard to remember. But three bodies outside the hotel where Nancy had been staying…?

No such thing as coincidence.

"I was talking to them while I was waiting for Nancy," Frank said. "I was supposed to meet them later — Miguel said he had some info on the fires."

"So whoever was in the limo would've seen you talking to them. But they couldn't have heard you…could they?"

" _It's not about the arsons, Joe._ Miguel saw Nancy with me. And the limo people saw _that."_

Oh…God. "They were eliminating witnesses," Joe breathed. "They didn't want anyone connecting whatever happened here with the kidnapping."

"I should've realized. I should've _known."_ Frank scowled when Joe only looked blank. "C'mon, Joe, _think._ Hammond isn't out here for the arsons. Nancy only investigates stuff for her dad's court cases. So whatever Nancy was looking into, it's something that someone needed a lawyer for and that the FBI _does_ investigate. And it's something big enough that someone not only kidnapped Nancy in front of tons of witnesses, but also murdered three street people right in front of —"

" _Frank,"_ Joe cut him off; his brother was getting loud. "Okay. So whatever Nancy was looking into…Hammond took advantage of it to get her to spy on us?"

"Nancy got angry because we were 'interfering' in her case," Frank said. "Remember what Tag said — she was at my desk. The only thing I had there was the arson folder. What's the one business that stands out in all the torched buildings?"

"Rathbone…" Joe stopped. "But that's the owner. That wasn't on those papers."

"No, but if Nancy's investigating them, she'd know who the subsidiaries are."

They fell silent as the Muni pulled up. For this part of town, the Muni wasn't crowded; Joe took one of the handicapped seats behind the driver, Frank standing over him. Joe glanced around at the passengers. Typical downtown crowd: bored, staring off into space, paying no attention.

"The kidnapping can't have anything to do with whatever Nancy's investigating," Joe said quietly. "Not unless they're really stupid. It just paints a great big target on the guilty party."

Frank didn't answer.

"You took the notebook," Joe said.

"Nancy stayed out at our place, too. We look through it, let Eli and Josh know, and then we turn it in like good citizens and tell the cops she'd left it behind at our place."

"Josh won't be happy about that. The cops might want to search our rooms, too."

"We won't have a choice. Carson knows she was staying with us." Frank stopped, bowed his head. "Oh God. Carson."

And Carson Drew knew Dad. Ten to one, Joe knew, _knew_ , what would happen the moment the news got to New York City…

"Worse," Frank said. " _Hammond."_

With that, the full, _real_ impact hit. "Oh," Joe said. "Oh _no."_

Kidnapping _was_ something the FBI took on, and Hammond was already involved with what Nancy had been investigating. Hammond, who was Dad's FBI contact and friend. Who was known for infiltrating subversive groups. Who'd tried to get Frank and Joe to spy for him. Who'd likely told Nancy to do the same.

Not that the Association was subversive in any way, shape or form: underground, yes, to protect its Gifted people from interference. But Hammond wouldn't see it like that. Not when one of the FBI's people — even if under the table — was grabbed.

Hammond now had what he wanted: a reason to get into the Center.

"'How much trouble can she be'." Joe slumped back in the seat. "Next time you even _think_ that, I'll shoot you. Machine gun. With extreme prejudice."

"You won't have to," Frank said, eyes bleak. "Joshua'll beat you to it the moment we walk in the door."


	16. Crisscross Shadow

_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, DuffyBarkley, Leyapearl, AlecTowser, & MoonlightGypsy for the reviews! And here we are, at the half-way mark. The roller coaster is now cresting the hill, about to plummet down..._

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One of these days, Frank would learn to keep his mouth shut.

The moment he and Joe walked in the front door of the Center — not only Joshua, but Eli, Mar, Downs, half the Council, most of the Blades, and a good amount of everyone else who lived at the Center were in the commons.

Both Frank and Joe halted. Every single face in the room had turned to look at them.

"You two," Joshua said. "War room. Now."

Right at that point, the TV blared out a report about "the daughter of New York lawyer Carson Drew" being kidnapped with "the sons of renowned private detective Fenton Hardy involved"…complete with a full-color clip of Frank sitting in the police car with Joe standing over him.

"I hate TV," Joe muttered. "I really, really hate TV."

Taking a deep breath, Frank reminded himself that he and Joe had been blindsided, and they barely knew what was going on. It didn't help.

"Where's Kris?" Frank said to Mar when they got close. Frank had meant to ask Kris about something. Being in front of the hotel had triggered a vague memory…

"With the kittens," Mar said. "The vet's keeping Moggie overnight for observation."

"Not another word, darlin's," Joshua said. "Sam, would you join us, please?"

"Blades _only."_ Eli stared around the room as others started to get to their feet; the movement stopped. "Keep the gossip to a mild roar, people. Anyone who starts throwing stones will answer to me in the morning." As Frank and Joe passed him on the way to the war-room, Eli dropped his voice, just loud enough for them to hear. "You two have certainly made life more interesting around here."

"Yeah, well, Josh wanted us to shake things up," Joe said.

" _Joe,"_ Frank said, and his brother shut up.

Joshua gestured the brothers to the side as everyone filed in, the other Blades finding seats on the available chairs and couches, with Eli commandeering the armchair next to Joshua. "Jamie, darlin'…" Joshua started, when Jamie came in behind the others.

Jamie halted next to Joe. "Don't even think of keeping me out, Josh. I was there. My Evil Overlordship has to vouch for my Fluffy Minions, after all."

Joshua glanced at Eli, who nodded. "Fine," Joshua said. "Everyone else good? All right, Mar, start it up."

Mar was taking charge? Frank felt his face freeze, heard Joe breathe a very quiet, "Oh no…"

They were in _trouble._

"Easy, my sons," Mar said. "Both your father and Carson Drew called me about an hour ago, demanding to know what you, quote, 'did to Nancy', unquote. And since Joshua was also in my kitchen and heard all their shouting loud and clear —"

"Darlin', you have a distinct gift of understatement," Joshua said. His Louisiana drawl had gotten noticeably thicker: Not. Good.

"— we both told them that as far was we knew, you had gone out to dinner —"

"— and then Jamie came strolling in, announced to the whole damn world that Nancy had been kidnapped, you two were investigating, and that myself and Hawk were not to go down there because we'd just be in the way," Joshua finished.

That hadn't been what he'd said at all. Frank glared at Jamie, who didn't look at all flustered.

"I didn't see Mar on the phone," Jamie said. "I only saw you at first, Joshua. Don't blame me for that."

"And I _only_ said we'd be finished before they got there," Frank said.

" _Frank,"_ Joe said.

"We're not blaming anyone, for the moment," Mar said. "But Fenton and Carson both heard her and…well…"

"To put it as delicately as possible," Joshua said, "the defecation hit the rotational cooling device and damn well _splattered_. And then Kris came back, saying the radio had some story about a kidnapping downtown and that she thought she heard Nancy's name before they cut to another fire."

"They're having a field day on the TV out there," Jamie said.

"That's enough, Jamie," Eli said firmly. "You've been allowed in here. That does not grant you the right to interrupt Joshua during Blade business."

"I told your father and Carson that we knew as much as they did at that point, and that you two would call them as soon as you got in," Mar said to the brothers.

"There's been _another_ fire?" Frank said. "One of the arsons?" Oh God. If the arsons and Nancy's case _were_ linked…if the kidnappers set the fire to cover evidence…or to cover something worse…

"Don't sidetrack, _ché,"_ Joshua said — Frank relaxed, just a little. If Joshua was calling them _ché,_ then he probably wasn't angry. "I'm asking nicely now. _What the hell did you two do?"_

Okay, maybe angry a bit…

"Nothing," Joe said.

" _God don't like ugly, darlin's. Spit it out!"_

…a _lot._

"We didn't do anything, Josh." Frank kept a tight rein on his own anger. Nancy had been kidnapped, she could be _dead_ at any moment, and Frank was stuck dealing with a _committee._ "We're still trying to figure out what happened ourselves."

Taking a deep breath, Frank started the story, Joe jumping in with his side and a much-subdued Jamie backing Joe up: that the brothers had gone upstairs to find Nancy and Kris in Frank's room with the kittens, and everything that had happened after that — though he and Joe skipped over their fight with Kris. She didn't need that kind of embarrassment.

The _something_ nagged at Frank again; he shook it off. Not now.

By the time Frank got to the kidnapping, Joshua had relaxed, sitting on the arm of Eli's chair. But when Frank and Joe described Nancy's hotel room, seeing Hammond outside, and the murder of Miguel and his friends…Joshua straightened, as shock murmured through the Blades.

"Oh, how wonderfully _grand_ ," Downs snarled. "A set-up. We've been set-up good and effin' _proper_ , and _Bait_ and _Mundane_ there walked right into it. You two really are a piece of work —"

"Harold, darlin', if you know how they were supposed to stop a kidnapping they didn't know was going to happen, I'm all ears, because having a pre-cog of _that_ level on our team would solve all our problems."

"Maybe they _did_ know, them and their CIA daddy —"

" _Harold."_ Joshua glared the man down, then turned back to Frank and Joe. "Now…did you two find anything in Nancy's stuff?"

Frank forced himself to relax. Now wasn't the time to temporize. "Just her notebook. We haven't had a chance to go through it, yet."

"Well, you're going to make time, _ché._ As of now, you and Joe are off the arsons."

" _Josh!"_

"No arguments," Joshua cut Joe off. His gaze settling on Frank, Joshua nodded slightly. "Your assignment at this point is to _find her._ That is your _only_ assignment and your _only_ priority."

Frank breathed out: Joshua understood.

"But we think the arsons tie in to whatever she was working on," Joe said. "We can't just —"

"You _can just_. Believe it or not, _ché,_ your commander has a working brain. And there's a bit that Mar forgot. Your daddy and hers are flying out here. Given their ties to your good buddy Hammond…do I need to spell it out in detail?"

Downs snorted, but subsided at another glare from Joshua.

"No, sir," Frank said, Joe a half-beat behind him. Frank knew Dad, and Carson's reputation was just as sharp: they would insist on turning the whole Center upside-down. It didn't matter that no one here really knew or cared who she was; it didn't matter that Frank and Joe were Fenton's sons. Nancy had stayed here and Frank and Joe were involved in her disappearance. That was how Carson would see it, no matter what Dad said.

The fact that Dad and Carson had called Mar with that accusation so fast meant _someone_ had been keeping close tabs on Nancy and had contacted them with some hefty insinuations. There was no way the news would've hit River Heights or Bayport that fast normally. It had to have been Hammond.

It made no sense, though. _Why?_ Hammond knew Dad, knew Frank and Joe. He couldn't think they were _behind_ the kidnapping!

"Harold, I want you and Hawk taking over the arsons for the time being," Joshua said. "You're known to the local heat and Kris's got a lot of how-to from these two. Frank, Joe, you _will_ share _all_ info you've got with them — and you had better damn well understand me."

"Yes, sir," Joe said quietly.

Whatever protest Frank had been about to make…well, no good to voice it. Frank kept his gaze on the windows. The _something_ nagged at him again — something he'd remembered back at the hotel when Jamie had asked about sending Kris down, something about Tag explaining Joshua's voodoo…

"Frank, darlin', I didn't hear you," Joshua said, his voice steel.

Damn. "Yes, sir," Frank said.

"Sam, by any good chance of the Almighty God, are you on the arsons with SFPD?"

"That's why I'm here, Butterfly," Samuel said. "I wanted to see if our greenhorns had come up with anything."

"Okay, then. Whatever you can pass to all parties concerned, I'd appreciate it. And those parties will pass _everything_ to you." Arms crossed, Joshua looked around the room to meet each and every person's gaze, lingering on Frank, Joe, and Downs. "I'll spell it out for all of you. Whatever problems you _doo-mommie_ grunts got with each other, I don't want to hear it any more. _It all ends now._ "

Silence.

"Don't let my sugary-sweet tones deceive you into thinking I'm not giving orders, darlin's," Joshua said. "Because I will personally kick your ass into next Tuesday if anyone deliberately impedes anyone else on the team. I'm not pulling the rest of you off your current projects — but if Frank or Joe ask for help, their assignment takes first priority, and you will give them whatever they need, to the best of your ability. _It is that important._ Anyone has a problem, see me, and I'll explain it in nice, simple words of one syllable or less."

Murmurs…but no protests.

"Fine," Joshua said. "Dismissed. Frank, Joe, stay behind, please. Mar? Eli?"

"I passed all of that to Kris," Mar said. "She'll meet you upstairs, Harold."

Frank looked at Mar — "passed"…so Kris would know what had been said without being here herself…

…then he had it. It took everything Frank had to remain calm, to not storm up to Tag's room immediately _._ They had to find Nancy fast: kidnappers rarely left their victims alive. That left no room for secrets or fears of hurting someone else.

If Frank was right, if Tag had the answer that could save Nancy's life…

"Whatever I had to say, you pretty much said it," Eli was saying to Joshua. "I will need your help in keeping the masses calm, please, Mar. Some of our people are bright enough to have figured out what's likely to happen."

"Gladly." Mar pushed to her feet and patted Frank and Joe's shoulders when she neared. "Easy, my sons. Your father won't be here until tomorrow evening at the earliest. You've got some lee-way."

"Not much," Frank said.

Mar nodded. "Still, he can't find what doesn't exist here. Remember that."

That hadn't been what Frank had meant, but he said nothing. He and Joe waited as everyone filed out, though Joe snagged Jamie's arm. "Babe, tell Dow…I mean…your uncle and Tag about the doll," Joe said to her. "I'll be up as soon as I'm done here."

" _Doll?"_ Downs said. "And what's my _niece_ got to do with this?"

Time was burning, time Nancy didn't have, and Downs wanted to argue about _that?_ "We found a doll in the Masters  & Roberts tower," Frank said. "We didn't say anything because we didn't know what to make of it or even if it was linked."

"It's bad, Uncle Harold," Jamie said. "It's really, really bad."

"Wait — a doll?" Samuel said. "You two didn't say anything about that before."

"Talk it out later, darlin's," Joshua broke in. "I'm pulling rank. Out, all of you. Frank, Joe, sit down."

Joshua waited until everyone else had left and made sure the door had closed and locked before turning to speak.

"I'm not angry. You two are not in trouble — not unless you screw with Harold over the arsons. And if you do that, I will bounce you both from the Blades and the Center so hard that you won't land within ten miles of San Francisco. Is that clear?"

Joshua had likely partnered Tag with Downs to head that off, but Frank kept that to himself. Just agree to whatever Joshua said and get this over with. "Yes, sir," Frank said, at the same time as Joe.

"I want to stress — because you're still learning what we are and what the Association does — that the FBI getting access to this place will completely and totally FUBAR many people's lives." Joshua's gaze rested on Joe. "You're one of those people, _ché._ Someone of your Gifts, with your daddy…the feds will take you by any means necessary. You being involved in a kidnapping? They'll be drooling like a kid at Christmas — grab you, trump up a charge, and you're MIA for good."

Frank exchanged a confused look with Joe…and then, suddenly, horribly, pieces clicked into place.

"But Tag says mage-Gift isn't rare," Joe said. "Just because Dad works with the government —"

"Not your mage-Gift, _ché,"_ Joshua interrupted gently. "Not that alone, anyway. That amp of yours. A Gift that can boost others is _valuable_. And at the level _you_ have it? There's a reason I've told you to keep it on the down-low."

Stories had been hitting the news in shockwaves about the secret — and illegal — research programs the CIA had funded, programs that had only been uncovered by accident. Frank had read the news stories in horrified fascination and growing paranoia. If Hammond was connected to any of that…

"You're talking about that MKUltra thing," Joe said. "But they stopped that. All the news says —"

"You know better, _ché._ You'd better damn well know better. The CIA and their buddies makes Thatcher look like a kindergarten teacher. And that's just _our_ side."

Joe sank back; Frank gripped his brother's shoulder. It wouldn't happen. Frank would not let it.

"Yes, I've raised the stakes," Joshua said. "And you needed to know exactly what those stakes are. I didn't pull you off the arsons because you messed up — you didn't."

"We have to find Nancy before any of that happens," Frank said; his hands clenched. "So the feds won't use it as an excuse."

Joshua nodded. "And you two might be the best — the _only_ — shot we've got. _Whatever it takes, find her._ Dismissed."

Frank held his peace as he and Joe left the war room…but Frank saw the looks they got from everyone still in the commons. He paused when he noticed the TV was showing the latest fire; both he and Joe watched in silence.

"Fire number six." Downs's gaze stayed on the TV when the brothers turned to look at him. "I love my niece dearly, but explanations are not her strong point. At least you two pretty boys can tell a straight story. Does the little mouse — excuse me, _Kris_ — know any of it?"

"No," Frank said through clenched teeth. "Just that we were working on it." He would not be baited. Too much was at stake.

Downs snorted. "And she was probably teeny-bopping over those idiot rockers and didn't hear a word you said. All right, _newbs._ Let's hear it."

Frank's jaw tightened, but he got the story out calmly enough as they went upstairs. By the time they got to the doll and what had happened at the Masters & Roberts tower, they were in the lab, and Frank had given Downs the folder with the SFFD papers — and Frank noticed that the kittens weren't in his room. Hopefully Tag had moved them; Frank and Joe weren't going to have time with this looming over them.

Downs studied the doll as Joe explained what Jamie had found and his speculations…then Downs stayed quiet for a long moment after Joe finished.

Breathing out his anger, Frank forced himself to still. If they rushed, they could miss something important. The arsons had claimed ten lives so far. That was important, too. It was all connected; it had to be.

But Downs's next words still surprised him. "Do you have any idea what she was working on?"

Silence.

" _Well?_ You told Butterfly you had her notebook."

"But we're not sure…" Joe started, but Downs cut him off.

"There's no such thing as coincidence, _Bait_. Get that tattooed on the inside of those thick skulls of yours and _learn it_. There's a reason Joshua put me and Hawk on this side of things and it has nothing to do with our Mutual Admiration Society. _Spit it out."_

"Nancy didn't tell us anything." Frank pulled the little notebook out from his jacket. "And I didn't get the chance to get it out of her before she was grabbed. This was under her bed when we searched the room."

"Overlooked, huh?" Downs waited, then, impatiently, "Go on, look at the damn thing. You know her, I don't. You can decipher that better than I will."

Frank hadn't wanted to go through Nancy's personal notes with Downs looking on, but…Frank laid it down on one of the work tables, paged through it.

"Wait — there." Joe stopped Frank from turning a page. "Inter — 'Intercontinental'. And 'Delta Corp'. There's one of the arsons."

"Paul Keller…" Frank read, turning the page. " _That's_ what I saw on the news. He's the director…or was. Delta was some new division of Intercontinental — but it turned out to be a paper tiger. Keller got nailed for fraud."

"More than fifty-thousand dollars," Downs said. "I saw that, too."

Frank nodded. "So Nancy's case has to be about the Rathbone Foundation. That's the only thing that sticks out. Intercontinental and Delta are part of Rathbone's group."

"The FBI doesn't investigate arsons," Joe said to Downs. "But they're involved, so Nancy has to have been investigating Rathbone —"

"Believe it or not, _Bait,_ I am aware of what the FBI's jurisdictions are."

Frank turned a few more pages. Vague notes, addresses — the Masters & Roberts Tower, 555 California, Chelsea-Briggs Expansion…Intercontinental…McKesson…Delta Corp…other businesses around the city…

"'Brother'," Joe said.

"Hmmm?"

"Not _you._ " Joe turned back a couple pages. "Look — she doodled that in the margin there. _'Brother'. 'All leads back to brother'._ What's that symbol?"

"Don't know," Frank said. It was a doodle, but a deliberate one, what looked like a cross over an anchor, and repeated over and over. The rest of the pages, blank. Nothing that would help, nothing that could tell them _where._ The addresses were of the burned buildings, the others likely businesses connected with the Rathbone Foundation.

"What if…" Joe said slowly, "…what if Nancy uncovered more? If there's others involved, not just Keller."

Frank bowed his head. Tracking embezzlement, going through records to try to figure out what and who…he and Joe hadn't been trained or taught any of that. Dad didn't handle embezzlement cases.

"Those addresses will save me and Hawk some time, anyway." Settling into a lean, Downs gave the doll a thoughtful stare. "And old Rathbone's tied in personally, somehow. Huh."

Frank and Joe exchanged startled looks. "So I was right," Joe said.

"Even a stopped clock is right twice a day _._ " Downs scowled. "I doubt he's setting fire to his own buildings, though. But something about this mess is ringing another bell…something about his wife…"

"Wife?" Joe said.

"Ex-wife. You newbs are too young to remember her. Greata Delquist —"

"The actress." Joe grinned at Downs's look. "Us newbs watch old movies, too."

"Amazing. But, yes, her. Rathbone went hermit after the divorce — that was a long while ago." Downs's gaze went back to the doll. "There was some mystery over it, though. I wonder…"

This wasn't helping Nancy at all. An old actress couldn't be involved in whatever Nancy had uncovered. Frank took another deep breath. Calm. _Calm_. "You know where Tag — Kris is?"

Downs shrugged. "Back in her room. Probably moping over those idiot rockers. More to the point, you've got a choice. I'm not putting that thing anywhere near Rita and Eme. Either you accept I'm going to be in here a lot because of that doll, or you decide on an alternate place for it, so I'm not constantly in your pretty faces while this lasts."

"Tag's room," Joe said. "She's got the heaviest shields in the Center."

"Are you really that stupid, _Bait?_ She won't want that thing anywhere near her space!"

That did it. Frank clamped his hand on Joe's shoulder, stopping whatever Joe had been about to say. "We'll talk with her. She might have better ideas. C'mon, Joe."

Steering Joe forcibly towards the door, Frank missed Downs's reply, not that he wanted to hear it. But the moment the hall door closed behind them, Joe shook Frank off. "All right, _all right._ You've thought of something — you've been seething with it since that nonsense downstairs."

Frank stared at the ceiling. Getting angry at Joe wouldn't accomplish anything. He had to calm down.

"Out with it, brother," Joe said. "What's going on?"

"New Orleans and our little jack of a tagalong," Frank said. "Her and Joshua, and what they did. Alma called them 'hunters'," remember?"

Joe stared at him…then slowly nodded.

"We're going to shake the whole story of New Orleans out of Tag," Frank said grimly. "The full truth, this time. Move."


	17. Haunted Fort

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, favorites & follows: Caranath, DuffyBarkley, Xenitha, Wendylouwho, AlecTowser, & VeilofMidnight!  
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"We need your help, Tag," Frank said.

It hadn't been an easy day. Seattle had been a blow, dealing with Vão and Rafe; Kris had been trying to shrug it off, to just not care, but everything that had happened, everything they'd said…it'd all cut too deep. To top it all off, Joshua wanted her to work with Downs on those arsons. Kris didn't care. Aside from caring for the kittens — now ensconced in a sturdy blanket-lined box close to her radiator — Kris just wanted to hide in her room.

But now Frank stood in her doorway, Joe right behind him. Both looked grim.

Kris didn't know what her big brothers wanted, and after what they'd said to her earlier, she didn't care _._ She turned away. "I'm not up for it right now."

Frank slammed his fist against one of her bookshelves. "You're going to help," he snarled, advancing on her. "And you're going to start explaining. _Now._ "

Wide-eyed, Kris backed up; her wards reacted, a growling undercurrent in the energy. Frank getting _violent_ with her? "Explaining _what?"_

But then Joe got between them and faced Frank down. _"Calm. Down._ Before her wards squash you and I'll _help_."

Oh dear gods, _Joe_ was telling _Frank_ to calm down…

Joe turned. "Nancy was grabbed."

Kris knew that, but what did that have to do with her? What had she done? Kris edged back; Frank's anger beat against her, straight through her already-thin shields. Swallowing hard, Kris fought to keep her gaze steady. She wasn't a child anymore. He wasn't Papa. "Um…Mar told me…"

"And Mar should've told you that it takes priority. Which means you're going to help, and you're going to start by telling us the _truth._ _Everything."_

" _Frank…"_

"Don't start, Joe. Don't even _try_ to start. I'm sick of all the evasions and _I'm not playing that game any more._ Not when Nancy's life's at stake!"

"Well, fine, but getting mad at Tag won't help!"

"Big brother…" Kris broke in tentatively, "I don't understand — Frank, I'm sorry, I really don't. I don't know what you think I can do."

"What you did in New Orleans."

"Um…I did a lot in New Orleans."

" _Don't you dare try that with me, Tag."_

" _I'm not!_ I'll help, but I don't know what you want me to help _with!_ "

"Frank," Joe said firmly as Frank opened his mouth. "Tag, we need to find her, fast. Detective stuff — the normal way — it takes time. Time we don't have." Joe's gaze bored into her. "Alma called you a hunter."

Watching Frank warily, Kris nodded.

"When you and Josh were first telling us your side of things down there," Joe said. "Something called touch-reading. You said you saw the killings."

"I did. But mine isn't that strong. It's the weakest of what I can do. _I'm not saying I won't help!"_ Frank had started to open his mouth again. "The killings. Those were _strong_ \- vibes, the only way I can put it."

"But you still saw stuff," Frank said.

"It's not like you think," Kris said. "It's like watching a movie through water, and the more fish swimming, the muddier it gets. There's no guarantee I'd see any more than you did."

"Stop it, Tag. _You did more._ Josh _knew_ things about that warehouse — stuff that had nothing to do with touch-reading. _Things that he said you saw_."

Oh gods…the look on Joe's face: he stared at his brother, then back at her.

"You owe us, Tag," Frank said. "You hid the truth about Thatcher and that nearly got us killed. _You owe us."_

No way out of this but the truth she'd never wanted to tell. "Sit down. Please, big brothers."

"You did see it," Joe said.

Kris had never wanted to face this, ever. Her big brothers dealing with the whole _spooky stuff_ thing was bad enough, but this… "Only because Vão was there. Because we have —" Her throat closed up; she closed her eyes, swallowed the pain down. "We _had_ a connection."

"You need Vão to do it," Frank whispered.

 _Big brother, your heart's lost, and you can't admit it._ Kris shook her head. "Let me tell it in order. Don't interrupt too much. I'll lose my guts. What…what you're talking about. As far as Josh has been able to find out, I'm the only one who can do it, and it scares the hell out of both of us."

She caught the look the brothers exchanged. Joshua, the Blade Commander, a former Green Beret who'd served in 'Nam… _scared…_

"There's two parts." Kris dropped her gaze to the floor; she couldn't look at them. "First… _stepping out._ Out of body. You know about that part, Joe." Joe nodded, but Kris bore on. "It can be learned, but it's so hard that most don't bother. It's easy for me. Always has been, as long as I can remember. Most of the Blades know about that." The truth…she had to tell them the full truth. "Josh thinks it's because of my parents and what they did. I don't have a good connection to my body."

"Circle Hills," Joe said. _"That's_ what you did. I saw you."

"If you say so. The concussion really did kill my memory." Kris smiled briefly. "I would've loved to have seen your face at that moment."

"You and me both," Frank muttered.

"But doing that. Stepping out. It's different, outside. I call it the _in-between,_ the spirit underpinnings of all this." Kris thumped a bookcase. "It's not the afterworld or heaven or anything like that. It's like…um…the stuff between the walls. All the framework and wiring and stuff."

"Sounds like the perfect vacation spot," Joe said dryly.

"You've never been there. Lots of stuff skews it. Even us talking like this will. And it's real easy to get lost. Spirits trapped in it are desperate — that's why hauntings are almost always bad. Frank, I'm _trying_ to explain, all right?"

"You said that's the first part." Frank's expression was a thrust to her own heart. How she'd felt, when Vão and Rafe had been grabbed: the panic, the desperation, the absolute certainty that she'd be too late...

Kris steeled herself: big brothers or not, she had to be hard. "The second part — the scary part. And before I say _anything_ else, you two have to swear to keep your mouths shut. No one else knows about it, except Josh. And Vão, because he had to. If you won't, then forget it. Walk out of here." Kris stared at the floor. "I mean _everything_ that implies."

"Josh said _everyone_ has to give us whatever help we ask for," Frank said. "No matter what."

"But he didn't say that help was free." Kris had to get control of her voice. Ice-hard, rock-hard, _soul-hard._ "It's not, and I won't, unless you _do."_

Silence.

"I'll swear," Frank said evenly, "but I don't know what you want me to swear by."

"On your place in the Association. Which means you break it — you'll be booted out. The whole college thing'll be withdrawn. No one will even cop to knowing you. That means me and _Shimá_ , too." Now Kris raised her head and met their gazes. "It'll kill me to do it. _But I will._ "

Such an oath was never taken lightly. She didn't have much standing in the Association, save as a Blade and Joshua's partner, but Kris would push it if she had to. It had impressed Frank and Joe; she saw it in their faces. Saw it in Frank's, especially. She'd just hit his personal line: he had trouble with Association secrecy, with the insistence that some things not be talked about. How bad did he want this?

"It's that bad?" Joe said gently.

Kris only looked at him. No. They weren't going to wiggle around it.

"Josh told Noel," Frank said.

"No, he didn't. He could've been referring to any combination of Gifts." Then Kris shut her mouth. No more, not until they swore.

"Josh didn't do this with Joe's amp. He just told us to keep it quiet."

"Amp isn't that rare," Kris said. "It's a valuable Gift, so that's why Josh doesn't want just anyone knowing, but it's up to Joe to decide for himself."

Kris saw it on their faces: the overwhelming curiosity, Frank's struggle with _trust_ versus keeping silent versus Nancy's life.

Joe returned her gaze steadily, then grasped her hand, tight and affirming. "I trust you. You're not bad _,_ Tag _,_ ever. I'll swear."

Then, slowly, Frank added his hand to the grip. "I swear it."

Kris pushed to her feet, made sure the hall door was locked, closed her own door, came back in, sat down. She felt Frank's impatience vibrating against her shields — shields already thin and worn from the emotional firebombs that Vão and Rafe had dropped on her. She had to say it now, before she lost her guts, before she ran out of here and didn't look back…

"Me and Josh call it tapping." Kris couldn't look at them. Here it was: the point where she became _monster._ No more Tag, no more the little abused runaway tagging along behind her detective big brothers. "Possession."

Joe's breath hissed in.

"Like what you said about voodoo, you mean," Frank said. "Calling in other beings." That steady, even voice. Oh, gods…

Kris shook her head. "What I said, about stepping out. I can also step _in._ I can go into someone else's body. See what they're seeing. Feel what they're feeling. Talk to them in their head. I haven't tried anything beyond that."

"New Orleans," Joe whispered, pale. "You…you mean like _Thatcher…_ "

" _No!_ Not — just…just _not._ I've _only_ done this with Vão. The first time scared the crap out of both of us. It happened by accident. NOLA was the second, and the first time I did it deliberately." Kris took another deep breath. "We've experimented a couple times since. Trying to tell what the limits are. That's it."

"Vão's an Empath." Frank glanced at Joe…and something changed in Frank's face. "So he — and _you_ —"

"I told you, before." Kris swallowed, got control over her voice. "They tore his shields down. He went through everything Nate did, that…that…you did, Joe. And worse. He got Thatcher and Claire's side of it, too."

Worse, much worse, not only being raped, but being forced to experience the pleasure of the rapist with it…and being powerless to help…

"So you _knew,"_ Frank snarled. _"You knew, even before I called!"_

"Frank, let me explain. _Please._ " There was going to be no way out of this, other than telling the full story of _everything._

"You knew I'd been caught." Joe's voice shook. "You saw what happened. _And you played it like you didn't know?"_

"No! We _didn't_ know! _You're judging me without the facts."_

"So tell it," Frank said. Joe bowed his head, fists clenched in his lap.

Frank's tone should've guaranteed her throwing both brothers out of her room. But that would only make it worse. "They'd just finished casting me," Kris said, voice flat. "They'd shot me up with Demerol and you know what that does to me."

"Vão and Rafe had been grabbed. We knew what was going to happen. _I_ knew it. But it was the killers' first mistake — they'd left me alive. Josh knew what'd happened…before…and decided we'd try to reproduce it." Kris stopped again, focused on her breathing to stay in control. It didn't help.

Her words dragged on. Her fear and desperation. Not knowing New Orleans, not being able to tell where, only general direction, and in the In-Between, the physical didn't always match. Having only an uncertain connection of an uncertain relationship to follow, surrounded in the drunken chaos of Mardi Gras, Kris had been lost and blinded. Finally finding Vão, and getting hit with his overwhelming agony. Coaxing Vão to open his eyes. Vão's terrified refusal to look down — she'd only known the killers had another victim, because Vão didn't know who Joe was…and worse, didn't know _where._

The crippling exhaustion and blinding migraine after, that had nearly knocked her unconscious. The phantom pain that she couldn't block. The struggle to hold on and get the information out…and the despair, knowing what was happening, being helpless to stop it, still not knowing where, until Frank had called. The horror of learning just who the new victim was…

By that point, Joe had taken hold of her hands, and when Kris looked up, tears were in Joe's eyes — then he pulled her into a tight, shaking hug. Frank sat frozen, as if trying to process what he'd heard…then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around both Kris and his brother.

In the middle of that comforting hug, the warmth and support of her big brothers, Kris broke down. Finally, finally, being able to tell _someone_ the full horror of NOLA…and on top of the whole miserable weekend… _everything…_

"So you can't track her like that," Frank said, not letting go. "You need a connection."

His voice was quiet, his face expressionless, but his despair wailed against her too-thin shields. Wiping at her eyes, Kris breathed slow and deep. She had to focus. There was business. "I have to have something to follow. Otherwise it's no better than knocking on random doors."

"Can you use another person's connection, Tag?" Joe hadn't let go, either. "Say if Frank was grabbed. Me to him."

"I…I don't know. Blood, family bond…maybe. The stepping-in part — I really don't know. I haven't tried with anyone but Vão."

Kris could _feel_ the stare between the brothers. "Using us," Frank said. "Us to Nancy."

A connection Frank couldn't admit to or would only admit at a safe distance: not likely to work at all. "Friendship," Kris said. "Maybe. But a friend you've only seen a few times? That's really weak."

Joe glanced at her, just a bare hint of a smile on his face. "She's right. Laws of magic, brother. You know 'em, too."

Abruptly, Frank looked up. "I love her. Is that enough?"

The bare hint broke into a smart-ass grin. "Probably more than it was about two seconds ago."

The usual snarky quips — Kris nearly broke down again. She wasn't a monster. They were still her big brothers. With a deep breath, she gripped Frank's hand, promise and reassurance both. "I'll try, big brother. No matter what. Do you have anything of hers, anything at all?"

"Law of contagion," Joe said, nodding, as Frank pulled out a small orange notebook. "I do. I grabbed a hairbrush from her room —"

"You _did?"_ Frank said.

"I was going to try working something out, until you decided to browbeat Tag. That and the notebook should do it." Joe pushed to his feet. "How many bottles of Gatorade should I bring back?"

"Two," Kris said. "One each."

That earned her a pause and an odd look, but Joe limped out without comment.

"Each?" Frank said.

Kris didn't answer.

When Joe got back, Kris led them back to the ritual space, with only a brief detour to the lock-box at the bottom of her closet. Kris nodded at the beanbags as she went around to the quarter-points to light the candles. "Get comfortable."

Her ritual space was small and cozy, safe and protected: a rounded nook with an arched bay-window that looked towards San Francisco, wall alcoves set at the other three quarter points that held handmade candles, beach glass and shells that she'd found, and various images of the Great Goddess. It was also the heaviest-warded place in the whole Center and the only place Kris felt truly _safe_ , as if held in loving arms and rocked. She'd never figured out why she was the only one with such heavy wards; maybe she was the only one who ever felt the need for them.

"What are we supposed to do?" Joe said, levering himself down.

That made Kris pause. Joshua had always known how to guard her back, though Kris wasn't quite sure what he did. But she wasn't about to admit that. "Um…you're watching my back. Anything that looks weird or not-right magically, nail it. Unless…" She gave Joe a long, studying stare.

"I'm not going to like it, am I?" Joe said.

"Depends on you." Kris hesitated. "There's more. After NOLA. After you two went home. What I told you we did. What I didn't say — Josh didn't step out on his own. I pulled him." Kris looked down. "That's part of it, too. No one else can do that, either, as far as we know."

That got too long a silence.

"He was still able to use his Gift out there," Kris said. "Having him out there watching my back was better than him staying here, where he couldn't necessarily tell what was going on. Your call, Joe."

Only the briefest hesitation. "I'm game."

"So what do I do?" Frank said. "Other than just sit here and give you the connection?"

"You're not just my connection out. You're my connection _back._ I don't exactly have a strong one to this." Kris tapped her chest.

"Friendship," Joe said.

"More than. Family-by-choice, on both sides. If I'd known you'd gotten caught before, I could've followed you a lot better than Vão." Kris looked down. "Frank calling and leading us in was faster, though."

Joe looked away.

"And…" Kris placed her .45 on the floor in front of Frank.

"You're joking," Joe said. _"Please_ tell me you're joking."

Kris only looked at Frank.

Hands clenched, Frank bowed his head, breathed something that Kris didn't catch…then pushed the gun towards Joe. "No. Joe stays behind. I'll go with you."

"You're _insane,"_ Joe said. "I can't —"

"I'm the one connected to Nancy," Frank overrode him. "It makes more sense for me to go."

Kris couldn't believe she was hearing this. _Frank_ offering to do spooky stuff? "Frank, you need to know — I may not be able to protect you out there. And stepping out hurts _bad_. Back here, I mean. Like the worst flu you've ever had, quadrupled…and it can kill you if you push it too far."

"I understand," Frank said evenly.

"Tag," Joe's voice shook, just a little, "the gun…"

"If it's not us," Kris said, "use it."

Joe looked away again. "Anything else I should watch for?"

"If we're turning blue, that's usually a bad sign. Other than that, use your judgement. Frank?"

Frank met her gaze. "Do it."

Kris hit the play button on the boombox. The drum circle tape: she adjusted the volume until it was low enough to not distract, but loud enough that the deep drum beats pulsed through the space. "Focus on the rhythm," she said to Frank. "Match your breathing to it. Don't worry about falling asleep — it'll make it easier, if you do."

"Great," Joe said. "I not only have to worry about both of you, I have to listen to his snoring."

"Right. You'll fall asleep in the silence." Frank stretched out in the bean bag. "Tag, you sure you want Mr. Nap-Five-Times-A-Day here to be guarding us?"

The joking under fire was familiar and expected. Kris would've worried more if they hadn't been. Tuning them out, she focused on her own breathing and the rhythm, let it carry her down as she loosened her hold on her body and stepped out.

Now for the _really_ hard part.


	18. While The Clock Ticked

_A/N: An early post, because I don't know if I'll be able to post on Thursday. Thanks to Pen4lew, Caranath, MoonlightGypsy, Xenitha, Barb, SunshineInTheGraySky, The Anonymous Guest, & DuffyBarkley for the reviews & comments!  
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The bean bag was comfortable, the nook dimly lit by candles and scented with cedar and sandalwood, the music a deep, rhythmic pulse that was easy to focus on — the little room felt safe and close. It had also been a long, physically- and emotionally- exhausting day. Simply lying down in the bean bag had Frank yawning…

…and next he knew, something tugged at him, pulling gently…

 _"Frank."_

Frank blinked up muzzily. It was an effort to open his eyes; he felt heavy and stupid with sleep.

The tugging grew insistent. "Nancy needs you, big brother. _Get up."_

 _Nancy…_ Frank opened his eyes again — Tag stood over him. With her help, he forced himself to sit up. The world swayed and grayed out; Kris caught him before he fell face-first into the…floor?

Fascinated, Frank stared at his hands splayed against the cold gray. The wood-grain swam into focus, but rippled out in concentric rings from his hands, which were pale and…and…transparent…

Memory returned with a rush, but Kris stopped him before he turned.

"Don't look back. That makes it lots harder."

"You are." Not words, not sound, more felt than heard: what remained after the words were spoken.

Kris shook her head. "That's just your view. Looking makes your body panic. You'll get jerked back. Come on. Focus on your hands if you have trouble."

"Wait…" Frank looked down at his hands again. "I have a _body_ out here?"

"Big brother…" That sigh — _definitely_ heard. "It's what you expect. What your…your… _you_ is used to. And you're connected real solid with your body, so that's making all this harder. _Come on."_

Light and warmth radiated somewhere behind him, filling the thick gray with wavering shadows, but Tag wouldn't let him look. She helped him up, then, step by trembling step, led him away. Frank felt dizzy, heavy, and drugged; his insides dragged at him, draining out in a steady, sickening flow. He wanted to lay back down and sleep. There wasn't any sound, only a deep muffled _thrum_ in his ears, and the air felt dead and stagnant, if he was wrapped in thick foam.

Two steps, three…then suddenly a crackling wall of light was right in front of his face: flickering purplish-black that made his eyes hurt, curving up and around as if he was inside a faceted gem of light…but Kris pulled him through without stopping.

"What was that?"

"My wards."

Now Frank stared at her, fascinated again. It was Kris, their little tagalong, and not. Another shape…a fleeting impression of feathers and a small swift shape darting through the swirling gray. "Your tattoo," Frank said, realizing. Then something occurred to him — that light…Joe?

Kris stopped Frank again before he turned to look. "Big brother, stop messing around and _come on_. Why in all the gods' names you're not a cat…"

"A _cat?"_

"Curiosity. As in _kills._ Big brother, _listen to me."_

Curiosity was an understatement — he had to know. Frank touched her shoulder. Skin…feathers…he couldn't tell. Something cool and solid that warmed under his hand. Frank looked around, careful not to turn completely. Swirling, misty gray streaked with static, shape and form wavering in and out of focus — it didn't look particularly dangerous…

"We're still within the Center's protections." Kris waited until he looked at her again. "It's mostly safe here."

Mostly. Frank waited.

"If we get separated, don't move. I'll find you. I might be right next to you —"

" _Might_ be?"

"Big brother — _forget everything you know about reality out here._ What I said about emotion and stuff skewing all this?" Kris gestured. "Out there — several hundred thousand people in a big, noisy, _violent_ city— you figure it out."

Frank had often teased Joe about his over-active imagination…but Frank's was just as good. He crossed his arms to hide his shivering.

" _Don't touch anything._ Don't answer anything you hear. Not unless you're one-hundred percent positive it's me." Kris's gaze was direct. "I'm deadly serious, big brother."

Frank nodded. A pull — another step — the exhaustion dragged at his chest and feet, pulling him down as they moved. They crossed through something that felt like electric gelatin…then…

 _Chaos._

Screaming, chattering, muttering, images, shadows — his footing vanished. He fell forward, caught himself just in time, but his hands grasped…grasped…nothing. Thick gray clogged his eyes, ears, mouth, as if buried deep in water-logged sand, and he choked, struggled. Shadows brushed his face with clingy, sticky spiderwebs, faces and forms faded past, and voices whispered right at his ear, behind him, directly in front of him, strange and familiar both…

… _ghosts._

Unable to move, unable to scream, Frank stood paralyzed in sudden, wrenching terror. The shadows carried Mom's body into the living room, that black coffin, the gagging stench of lily, pipe smoke, formaldehyde, rotting meat.

…but Mom was dead. Mom was a _ghost._ Ghosts were monsters, ghosts wanted to _get you…_

 _No._ Something pushed him. _Move. Keep moving._

But the shadows had grabbed him, dragging him close to the body, forcing him to kneel over it —

It wasn't Mom. Joe lay in that casket…

…eyes open, face contorted as if struggling to speak, one arm reaching…

 _Move._ A faint scent of roses: the touch became a brief embrace. _You can't stop. You must move, my son, my dear son…_

The something _shoved_ …and Frank staggered forward, fell to his knees, catching himself before he went sprawling. Shaking his head, he looked up. A ghostly city wavered ahead, across a vast expanse of gray, stagnant water veiled in that same rolling gray of shadow, mist, and static. Then it shifted: buildings grew, spires piercing the sky…

Wait. Frank squinted. Out on the water, some tall form, someone with their arm upraised..

 _See. Remember._

The city erupted in flames.

Scrabbling back, Frank ran into something behind him — he choked the yell off before it was more than a gasp. Kris, just Kris, _only_ Kris.

"I see it, too, big brother," Kris whispered. "Gods, what is going on over there?"

"Did you shove me back there?"

"What?"

Frank started to turn, stopped himself just in time. Tag had warned him about this, after all. Get a grip. "Never mind. What about Nancy?" When Kris didn't answer, Frank grabbed her, pulled her around to face him. " _Where is she?"_

Bowing her head, Kris looked away.

"Tag…"

"I've been trying, big brother." Her words were a bare breath under the rising and falling _thrum_ of the surrounding chaos. "I can't. I can't pick up your connection. I can't even sense it."

" _But is she alive?"_

Kris wouldn't look at him.

Despair dragged Frank down. He'd been so _sure._ It was spooky stuff. It wasn't supposed to _not work._ It couldn't fail. Nancy couldn't be dead — he couldn't just abandon her —

"Big brother, you're not listening. _You're the one connected._ _Listen_ —"Kris thumped his chest, "— listen _here. Follow her!"_

" _How?"_

" _I don't know._ I just do it." Kris looked away again. "My explanations don't make sense to you anyway."

 _One of your explanations that make no sense._ It was their in-joke, something between him and Joe and Kris whenever Kris started rambling about the spooky stuff. Her explanations had never made much logical sense. And now…here…

It was all spooky stuff. None of it made logical sense.

"Kris… _Tag…"_ It was hard to think, hard to move, exhaustion pulling him into the gray, pulling him down into the earth and stone. Yerba Buena, true rock, true earth, a real island, unlike the landfill that was Treasure Island nearby. Frank could feel that stone under his feet, hard, cold, and gray, thrumming in slow, grinding rhythm.

"I'm sorry, big brother." Her whisper was faint, exhausted. "We have to go back. It's starting to hurt bad — and for you —"

" _No."_ Frank struggled up. He was…here. Somewhere. And over there, that shadowy, shifting, gray city. Nancy wasn't _here._ She was over _there._

No good staying here, then. Frank shoved himself back to his feet and started moving, ignoring Tag's yell. Feel…listen? He didn't know what to listen for, where to even start.

No…wait…Joe had said something. The laws of magic…contagion… _connected objects continue to interact after separation._

Nancy's notebook had been tucked in Frank's jacket, against his real body. Right here, right inside — his fingers touched something like paper and thin plastic. Best not bring it out. Closing his eyes, Frank let his hand feel, tracing out the edges and surfaces, the rustle of paper, the smooth slick plastic — there were grooves in the paper, curled lines etched in the shadow and form.

 _Keep moving._

Ghosts of her writing, ghosts of her…Frank could imagine Nancy frowning as she wrote, mouth pursed in that thinking scowl as she chewed the end of her pen, hair falling down to frame her face, then looking up at him…

 _Keep moving._

…how she'd looked in L.A., at the detectives convention, her thin dress soaked through from falling in the studio lake. Shivering, Nancy had leaned against him for warmth and Frank had put his arm around her, pulled her in close…

" _Big brother — stop!"_

Frank couldn't — _would not —_ stop. Nancy was _right there_ — so close…he could _touch…_

Someone shoved him back. Stumbling, Frank opened his eyes, looked down…

…and down…and _down…_

Kris grabbed him. "It's not real, big brother. We're not — it's not. It's just _not._ Jesus effin' Christ on a freakin' hoppin' crutch, _start_ listening _when I tell you something's bad!_ "

They were far, far up, one of the buildings — Frank stared around, his eyes following each movement and shape, forcing himself to file it all away and remember: clusters of tall gray buildings, orderly and precise, misty frost flowing off them in clouds. All blocking the light, all built of shadow and mist, shifting and changing from moment to moment. Downtown somewhere? There, to his right, on the ground — that moving thing — thick metal snakes writhing through the cracks of the city, becoming cold black boxes clacking and wheeling away, spitting out masses of gray forms crammed together…the Muni station?

Trying to orient himself, Frank looked up. That — a gargantuan white block sat solidly at the edge of the misty water, flecks of color dotted around it — that could be the Port. Nearby was a shining pyramid, glistening with ice and reaching up into the gray sky — Frank stared at that. It looked familiar…

His gaze pulled back to the building at hand: tall, dark glass, covered in odd bay-like ridges running the full length of the building — and the top was surrounded in a fluctuating, oozing, oily globe.

" _Don't!"_ Kris grabbed his arm as Frank reached for it; she sounded breathy and worn. "It's…it's a ward, sort of. Real primitive. What someone untrained might do in a panic. Vão had something like this, when we first met. Look…" Kris held her hand an inch or so away from the ooze.

The gunk snatched Kris's hand and enmeshed it in sludgy gray, pulling her in with oozing, sucking noises, but Kris yanked away, breaking the hold. "Someone with mage-Gift?" Frank said.

What this had to do with Nancy, Frank didn't know…but there was pressure around his chest, a slow, steady pull as if someone was grasping for something, anything, a lifeline, a way out. But this…the globe…It totally blew everything Frank had thought Nancy might be working on out the window. Why send _Nancy_ after someone who could do this?

Kris shook her head. "A 'path, I think. It feels psychotic. Not something someone stable does."

It didn't matter. Nancy was in there. She had to be. They had to know more — they had to know who, where, what…

" _No, big brother!"_ Suddenly their little tagalong wasn't so little: an eerie double-image, a kestrel mantling its wings, beak open and screaming defiance despite being out-sized and out-matched. " _It's a trap._ It's a selfish, greedy, sticky muck that wants everything inside for itself so it can keep everyone else away and you'll be lost until whoever's in there lets you go!"

Pain lanced through his temples, but Frank shook Kris off. " _Nancy's_ _in there!"_

"Big brother, _you can't help her like this._ We have to go back. We have to!"

Frank jerked free. "You go back. Tell Joe — _Embarcadero_. I'm not leaving her here!" He reached for the gunk — if he could force his way through, get to Nancy somehow…

But Kris grabbed his arm again. Frank gasped: how was the little tagalong so _strong_? "No, Frank. Over there, big brother. You'll see why."

Frank turned to look…

…and jolted.

Pain slammed into him in the next instant, racking his physical body in spasms and cramps, agonizing charley-horses in all his limbs and deep, tearing coughs ripping through his lungs — the air was _freezing_. He was so cold…he couldn't get warm…he couldn't stop shivering…

" _Frank!"_

Hands grabbed him, their warmth searing through him, and somehow, Frank forced open gummy eyes that stung, found himself staring into a singing, blazing brilliance of fiery wings…

…fire that stared at him with Joe's panicked face…

"Embarcadero," Frank whispered.

And collapsed.


	19. Secret in the Old Attic

_A/N: Thanks to SunshineInTheGraySky, DuffyBarkley, AlecTowser, Xenitha, MoonlightGypsy, NuclearRogue, ArianeKeisha, & Aubrie1234 for the reviews, comments, & follows! Minor note: the episode does spell the name as "Greata"._

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Wondering what in the world was so important that Dad couldn't wait for her to call him back, Nancy had gone out to the restaurant lobby and smiled her thanks as the hostess handed Nancy the phone. With a sigh, Nancy turned away from the people in the lobby to at least get the illusion of privacy. "Daddy?"

"Dear Greata." An amused, tinny voice that definitely wasn't Dad. "Enough's enough. Time to come home, now."

The voice didn't sound remotely familiar. "Who is this?"

Then a burly man in a suit shoved his way up, grabbing Nancy's free arm and twisting it back before she could react, as cold metal jammed against her side. "Move," the man growled, "and you won't get hurt."

Nancy froze for a split-second — lobby, not full, but quite a few people, hostess backing away with widening eyes, gun pressed _there,_ bullet would hurt a lot and _maybe_ kill, but if they took her off any where, she _would_ be dead — and in the next breath, Nancy _yelled,_ a full-throated from-the-gut _kiai_ as she twisted, stomped down on the man's instep —

— he wore steel-inlay boots, which threw Nancy's balance off before she could jam her elbow back into his stomach, as another suit moved in on Nancy's other side —

Gun blast, right by her ear, deafening her and shocking her to a standstill for a brief second — just long enough for the other man to grab her. People were now screaming, hitting the floor and running into the restaurant. Together the two men forced her out despite her struggles, but the Nancy fought, kicked, twisted, tried to bite, to score eyes, noses, groin — holy _Jesus_ , they were strong!

Limo, at the curb. Dear God, _no!_ Nancy twisted against one side, broke the hold momentarily —

The limo door slammed open and cracked her knee in a sharp shock of pain. In that off-balance instant, the two men shoved her headfirst into the back of the limo, where _another_ man grabbed her and smothered her face in a wet cloth as the other two piled in.

 _Amateurs —_ Nancy held her breath, bit savagely at the fingers through that cloth even as she brought her knee up and tried to kick, to scratch and take out eyes. The cloth-holder yelped, swore, and let go, as the other men struggled to hold Nancy down and smashed the cloth back against her face. But chloroform took minutes of inhaling to knock out an adult, more than enough time to cause real headaches for these SOBs and get away —

…wait, the cloth had no smell…

"They always fall for it," another voice said.

Something jabbed deep into Nancy's arm. Not that she cared, still fighting — one of her kicks scored hard into a groin, and…and…

…blackness.

Woozy, stomach rolling, Nancy came to in thick, soft darkness…and froze, fear jolting through her. She couldn't move. Her hands were bound behind her — duct tape, it felt like; her feet and legs likewise bound. She couldn't open her eyes, and her mouth had something cottony stuffed into it with more tape sealing it shut. Soft padding surrounded her, padding that stank with the chemical smell of packing foam.

Oh God, they'd crated her. Pack her up, hide her someplace, let time do its work. She was going to _die…_

Don't panic. She could still breathe through her nose. Panic would suffocate her and kill her even faster. Nancy forced herself to breathe slow and deep, trying to feel out her bonds and determine how to free herself. Duct tape could be worked around, but it took time and patience.

Muffled voices: men, from the bass tones. Directly in front of Nancy's face, wood cracked, then the world tilted and sent Nancy tumbling onto a carpeted floor; she bit back the yelp. Fresh air, scented with leather and good cigar smoke, and an aroma of fresh basil and baked fish — faint light from around the edges of whatever covered her eyes.

"Get out," a man's voice snapped, and Nancy recognized it. Robert Coleman, Rathbone's head lawyer. What was _he_ doing here…where ever _here_ was? "You know the rules."

Masculine grumbles, footsteps across carpet…a pause, then some plastic clicking, a muffled metal whine…the ding of an elevator? But Nancy lay un-moving. If they thought her unconscious, she could learn enough to get out of this.

"They're gone, sir." Coleman's voice sounded farther away, from across the room.

"Good, good." A new voice, old and creaky. Good leather shoes stopped just within Nancy's vision under the edge of the blindfold, where the tape had worked loose. "Greata, Greata…really. Forcing me to hire all these dirty men just to bring you back home. I thought you more intelligent than that."

What in the world…?

"She's still unconscious," Coleman said.

"No, she's not," the old voice snapped. "I know when my Greata's faking. It's a little game she plays. She's fully awake. Leave, Mr. Coleman."

No sound, not even shuffling of footsteps. "Rathbone, I'm telling you, this is a huge mistake. You've just painted a big target on all of us."

"Who owns this company?" the old voice demanded, and there was a faint choked noise. "Not you, Mister Coleman. I did not ask for your opinion, and I do not pay you to give the orders. Now. _Leave."_

Owns…? _Rathbone?_

Scrabbling sounds, more plastic clicking, another ding of the elevator, then silence.

"Well, my dear." Old hands touched the sides of Nancy's face, worried at the duct tape covering her eyes, peeled it off, then worked at the tape over her mouth. "We can dispense with these, I think. You're home now. They're not needed."

Nancy blinked up — an old, gray-haired man, mid-seventies at least, square-jawed, dressed in a neatly pressed pin-stripe suit. Not how she'd pictured a reclusive hermit who owned an international corporation to look.

Using his left hand, the man pulled the duct-tape gag free. Nancy spat out the cloth. "Weldon Rathbone," she said, her tone dripping with _you-really-are-an-idiot._

He broke into a gentle, gratified smile. "So you remember your dear husband after all, Greata. I was starting to wonder."

 _Greata?_ Okay, best not to tick off the guy who'd had her kidnapped…especially when he was holding a box cutter. "You have me confused with someone else," Nancy said carefully. "I'm Nancy."

"Yes, Greata, of course." Now Rathbone worked at the ties around her feet, still using only his left hand. "It took my people a while to track you down. Changing your name like that, moving so far away. Really. Throwing away our wonderful marriage for that disgusting movie boy." Rathbone _tsk'_ d. "Now you're home. We can forget all that."

"Forget all what?" Her feet free, Nancy stretched, and Rathbone helped her to sit up, then cut the bonds on her wrists — still using only his left hand. Nancy noted it: so the man was left-handed. But she didn't take immediate advantage of her freedom — not yet. Rathbone hadn't made any hostile moves — well, aside from having her grabbed — but still… Nancy watched him. _Greata_ sounded familiar, too, but she couldn't place the name at the moment.

Rathbone hadn't answered.

Ok. Treat this carefully. Stay pleasant, stay polite, remind him she was human. "You've made a mistake. I'm _Nancy Drew._ My father's Carson Drew, the New York lawyer. I don't know who you're talking about —"

"That's enough, Greata." The gentle old voice sharpened. "Drop this silly masquerade. It's over. I've found you, and you're home now. Stop pretending."

"Pretending _what?"_

Rathbone stepped back, looking her over and shaking his head with a soft _tsk_ - _tsk._ "Modern styles do not suit you at all, Greata," Rathbone said sadly. "They've lost all sense of style _._ Go into your room and change for supper. I've had your favorites catered in, especially for you, to celebrate your homecoming. You always were partial to imperial caviar."

Caviar made Nancy sick, but there were more important things to worry about: Rathbone still held the boxcutter. Slowly, carefully, Nancy got to her feet, wobbled uncertainly at the rush of blood and feeling back into her legs — Rathbone caught and steadied her. He was beaming at her, like a magnanimous grandfather gifting his favorite grandchild with Christmas a day early.

"Go change, Greata," Rathbone said again. "Go change for supper."

Nancy couldn't figure this out. Rathbone wasn't acting like a kidnapper, definitely wasn't acting like anyone who would pay to have someone kidnapped. A kidnapper wasn't supposed to be nice to the kidnapp-ee; kidnapping wasn't something you did to someone you were on good terms with, after all.

Not that Rathbone was acting normal, for that matter.

"Go — change," Rathbone said, slowly, as if to a child. "You'll feel a lot better when you do."

Nancy looked around, taking in the space. Thick burgundy and gold carpeting, dark oak paneling, subdued lighting, big arched windows with velvet curtains, expensive leather furniture, marble fireplace. The room said _rich_ , but Rathbone's face and attitude screamed _kook._

"I'm not hungry," Nancy said. She'd spotted the phone, across the room on the desk.

"Of course you're hungry." Rathbone's tone sharpened: grandfather tired of a child's whining. "You're always hungry, my princess. That was your worst failing. Hungry Greata, never satisfied, always wanting more, never mind that I've given you the world. Now _go change."_

Nancy only stood there, adjusting her balance. No one else had come into the room — so they were alone? Rathbone was taller than she was. He held his right arm oddly, as if it hurt. The rest of him: muscular for someone in his 70s, a bit of a limp when he walked — maybe arthritis. Not that it mattered, if things degenerated.

But Nancy didn't move. Let him come to her, if he dared. That would put her in control of the situation: swift strike into his gut, followed by the heel of her hand up into his face. Then while he was doubled over screaming, she could get out.

But Rathbone didn't come any closer. "I said —"

"I heard you," Nancy snapped. "My hearing is perfectly fine. As are my clothes. Now are you going to cut this nonsense out, or are you seriously going to bring down your entire company just because you're too stupid to admit you made a mistake?"

Ooops, maybe too strong. Ticking off a mentally-unstable man holding a boxcutter — not a good idea.

No longer smiling, Rathbone set the boxcutter down on the desk, then turned back. "My patience is wearing thin, Greata, my dear. Go change for dinner."

 _Run along like a good little girl and stop misbehaving,_ his tone said. Nancy grit her teeth. There was a door in the corner near the elevator: likely the stairs. "I'm not Greata. I'm _Nancy Drew._ And I'm _going home."_

"You are home, Greata." Petulant, just a hint of a querulous whine. Now Rathbone sounded like a thwarted two-year-old about to throw a tantrum unless Mommy gave in right _now._

Nancy hadn't done much baby-sitting, but she still knew how to deal with that. "Whatever." She headed for the stair-door, calmly, un-rushed, as if Rathbone didn't matter.

Padlocked.

Temporary setback. Nancy didn't think Rathbone would hand her the keys, but easy enough to get the keys. They were likely in that desk…

Suddenly Rathbone was right there, grabbing her wrist. "Greata, you know better. Get away from there."

That did it. Nancy twisted, broke the hold, then slammed the heel of her hand up into Rathbone's face —

— or tried. He'd moved the moment she'd twisted around —

— and backhanded her across the face.

Stumbling, Nancy grayed out, caught her balance, just as Rathbone grabbed her and threw her against the sofa. Nancy's head cracked against its wood arm.

"Now look what you made me do." Still the same, soft-stern voice of a parent to a misbehaving child. "Stop this immediately, Greata."

Something was really weird — the air felt thick and hazy. Nancy scrambled to her feet, swayed dizzily, stumbled…

"What's this?" Rathbone grabbed her again, snatching at her chest and throat.

Twisting, Nancy broke free, but felt something snap off from around her neck — she rounded, backing off in a defensive judo stance.

Rathbone held the quartz pendant dangling on its now-broken silver chain. "You've been taking gifts from those movie boys of yours again, I see." Rathbone walked over to the desk, dropped the pendant in the wastebasket. "Well. That's enough of that. I've put up with your misbehavior too much already, Greata."

No point in correcting him. Rathbone was obviously lost in whatever happy-land he had inside his head, and Nancy didn't care what he did with Hammond's trinket. Nancy backed towards the elevator, careful to keep Rathbone in view…

The elevator panel was a punch-button security pad. Code-locked.

Rathbone walked towards her, one casual step at a time, his expression back to the smiling, benevolent tyrant. "Greata, Greata. Stop this. You're home with your dear loving husband, who's gone to such trouble to welcome you back despite all your misbehaving."

Her hearing had gone odd, fuzzy and muffled, as if her ears needed to pop; her vision hazed over. Nancy swallowed and swallowed again, trying to keep her gaze on Rathbone and shaking her head to clear it. She backed up against the wall, now scanning the room for something, anything she could get her hands on and use for a weapon.

Wait… _Greata_ …that was the movie star…Rathbone's wife.

"Calm down, my princess," Rathbone said. "You're frightened. You've been away for a long time. You're safe now. No one will touch you here, not the cold world, not those disgusting movie boys, no one. Only you and me, my Greata."

Nancy's head hurt: probably an after-effect from the knock-out drugs. Or that crack on the wooden arm of the sofa; she didn't think she'd hit that hard, but…

Rathbone's voice softened. "Those men wanted to kill you. Coleman and Keller — they thought I'd lose my head over you again. But I caught them. I saw the picture Coleman had. I ordered him to bring you here. Everyone obeys me. _Everyone._ "

The headache sharpened, a stab of pain right behind her eyes. Nancy shook her head, unable to clear it, unable to get her ears to pop. It had been a long day, and she hadn't had much to eat. Exhaustion weighed heavy in her chest; her legs and arms felt like stone. She was hungry, and exhausted — no wonder she wasn't thinking straight.

But she would not cooperate with this lunatic. Rathbone had grabbed her, had hit her, had — had —

"Oh, yes, my dear, you will, too. My Greata obeys me. You tried to run, but here you are." Rathbone had come closer, enough to stroke her arm with one single finger. "I always found you, my princess, no matter where you went. You will not escape me again."

Jerking away, Nancy lashed out in a strike that caught Rathbone across the face — then she turned and yanked open the stairwell door and fled through it, the nearest escape, anything to get away —

— wait —

Confused, dizzy, Nancy pulled up short. This wasn't the padlocked door to the stairs. This was a bedroom, frilly and lacy and smelling of old lavender…

…with bars over the windows…

Behind her, the door clicked shut.

Nancy rounded — but the door opened _out._ The hinges were on the other side, which meant the lock was, too.

Another click, followed by the solid clank of a bar dropping into place.

Rathbone's voice floated through the door. "Don't take too long changing for dinner, my princess." A satisfied chuckle. "I'll come for you when I'm ready."


	20. Figure In Hiding

_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Xenitha, Leyapearl, AlecTowser, DuffyBarkley, Victor A November, & Katie Janeway for the reviews, comments, & follows! By the way, folks, Duffy Barkley is a real, published author, with a cool series of fantasy books about a boy with cerebral palsy ("Duffy Barkley Is Not A Dog" is the first of the series). Check her out on Amazon!  
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"Well, now I can say that it's no fun on this end, either," Joe said.

Frank opened his eyes.

Color, light: first things that hit. Light too bright, from the wrong angle. Small rainbows flickered over the brick walls. Something lumpy under his right side. A small, purring weight on his shoulder. A knitted afghan thrown over him; he was bare-chested. Bean bags on the floor. Something small and furry purring against his chest. An IV line plugged into his right arm, which stuck out over the edge of the…couch?

Squinting, Frank swallowed, then swallowed again, trying to remember. That was an IV…but this wasn't a hospital…

"Hello?" Joe leaned into Frank's sight and waved a hand. "You'd better be awake, because I'm sick of making excuses to Dad."

"Not my room," Frank whispered. The weight on his shoulder kneaded at his shoulder, then re-settled, the purring in Frank's ear increasing to jet-engine levels.

"It's Tag's couch. Easier than moving you downstairs, and this way, Dad and Carson have _our_ rooms. Trevor said you were safe enough here. Medically, anyway. I can't vouch for what'll happen when Dad finds out you're awake."

The warmth against Frank's chest shifted. He looked down: the tuxedo kitten was curled in the crook of his shoulder and armpit. The smoky gray kitten was asleep on his shoulder…then Frank saw past his brother.

Little Rita was curled up in one of the beanbags, asleep.

"She said the kittens wanted to be with the angel," Joe said, grinning. With a glance towards the door, Joe lowered his voice. "Just so you know, our story is that you and Tag got food-poisoning from that hot-dog cart." Joe raised his hands in surrender when Frank looked at him. "Don't blame me. Trevor came up with that one."

Trevor was Bay Area Center's Healer. As Frank stared at the IV, memory filtered back…

"Whatever you two did shook the Center," Joe went on. "Josh told everyone that Tag stepped out to find Nancy, used you as her connection, and something backlashed. He's claimed first rights to kill both of you for being idiots."

"Nancy…" Frank tried to shove himself up from the couch, wavered as the room spun. The kitten on his shoulder dug in its claws and _meep'_ ed in protest.

Joe shoved him right back down. "You're not going anywhere. You've been out almost a full day, sir. It's Saturday." Joe's expression went grim. "If that's what stepping out does, I never, _ever,_ want to try it."

"Famous last words," Frank muttered, breathing through a surge of nausea. "Tag?"

"Still out of it." Joe nodded towards Kris's sleeping space. "Count your blessings. That stopped Dad and Carson from raising hell back here." Another grim smile. "Carson didn't _dare_ cross Mar."

Groggy, nauseous, and dizzy…and now that Frank was awake, his skin was seriously itching. "Bathroom."

Joe nodded and, after moving two protesting kittens to the beanbag with Rita, helped Frank up.

A little later, showered and dressed — Trevor had removed the IV, after a sharp lecture about eating whatever was put in front of him — Frank was back on Kris's couch and spooning up a bowl of chicken noodles, a plastic tumbler filled with salted apple juice on the TV tray next to him. All six kittens now sat at attention at his feet, all mewing pathetically, all six tiny noses quivering, and all trying to steal tidbits when the brothers weren't watching.

Thankfully, Joe had convinced little Rita to leave so he and Frank could talk. Kittens were easy to deal with, but a curious, Gifted kid who thought Frank and Joe were her personal guardian angels was more than Frank could handle at the moment.

"You got out ' _Embarcadero'_ before you crashed." Joe toyed with his own bowl of noodles. "Tag wasn't even that coherent. Only thing I could think of was Embarcadero Center." Joe sighed. "Me and Downs went down there, but neither of us picked anything up." Joe moved two over-insistent kittens away from his food. "Was that what you meant? Embarcadero Center?"

"I'm not sure…wait…you and _Downs?"_

"We didn't have much choice. Our partners were kinda comatose at the time. Out with it, brother. What happened out there?"

His brother chose the most annoying times to get focused. Rubbing at his forehead, Frank faltered through what had happened…what he remembered, anyway. The shifting gray, the cold buildings, the oily haze…

By the time Frank finished, Joe had settled back into the beanbag. Two of the kittens — the tuxedo and the gray — had curled into Frank's lap, asleep.

"Tag wasn't kidding," Frank said, head in his hands. "Everything out there…I thought I recognized the Port — but maybe it wasn't. You didn't sense anything?"

"We didn't think to check up high," Joe said, staring in front of his face. "Don't second-guess yourself. Josh says a lot of this stuff runs on gut-instinct."

"Detective instinct," Frank murmured.

"Yeah, that, too. Oh, and Downs gave me these, just for you. His wife collects them." Joe handed Frank a stack of old gossip magazines: _Confidential, Dare,_ _Whisper,_ and others.

Frank wasn't _that_ hard up for reading material, but then one of the covers caught his eye. The woman in the picture wasn't Nancy, but it was a close match. Same facial structure, the line of the jaw, titian hair. But not the eyes — they were different: deeper…sadder…

"You see it, too," Joe said.

"Yeah." Frank paged to the story, then flipped back to the cover to check the date: 1953. "Greata Delquist? That's…"

"Rathbone's ex-wife," Joe said, nodding. "Everything keeps coming back to him."

The story: typical gossip rag fodder. Greata getting pregnant by a co-star, divorcing Rathbone, then disappearing. Frank picked up another magazine: similar story, same pictures, though dated a few months later and with more rumor attached — claiming Rathbone had retreated to a San Francisco penthouse, that Greata and the unnamed actor had vanished…presumably fleeing the country due to McCarthy-era blacklisting.

"Joe?" Dad, from the hall door.

"Make up your mind quick," Joe murmured to Frank, then, louder, "He's awake, Dad."

Maybe best to fake being asleep…no. Frank was tired of lying to Dad. Frank set the magazines down, managed to sit up a little straighter, swallowing hard against another surge of nausea.

Dad appeared in the doorway, his face lighting up when he saw Frank. But then Dad looked uncertainly at Joe. "Is Kris…?"

"I'll check." Joe pushed to his feet, steadied himself with the crutch, then maneuvered back through the archway. Frank heard Joe say something, followed by Kris mumbling. Joe limped back into the sitting room. "She's still pretty out of it. She took her meds about an hour ago." Joe glanced at Frank. "The food poisoning triggered her migraines real bad."

A subtle reminder about their cover story…and a not-so-subtle rebuke over what Frank's insistence had done to their tagalong. Frank wasn't about to apologize — Tag had agreed to it, after all — but he'd make it up to her later.

"Maybe…?" Looking uncomfortable, Dad glanced towards the guest room across the hall.

Frank didn't want to make Kris feel worse, but the thought of dealing with Dad without something keeping the conversation under control… Frank sagged back into the couch. He didn't need to fake feeling sick, at least. "Dad, I really don't feel up to this."

"I don't have much choice, son." Eyeing the beanbags and the kittens, Dad picked his way over to settle into the desk chair.

"I told Tag we'd be talking out here," Joe said. "She said she's got the tape recorder running and that blackmail's really profitable."

Dad smiled slightly. "It's okay. Carson's talking with the FBI again right now. But…" Dad paused, giving both Frank and Joe a steady, _no-nonsense_ gaze, "…I want the _whole_ story, you two. The truth, this time."

Frank looked away. Trying to protest that he and Joe never lied to Dad was pointless. Not after New Orleans.

"Hammond called Carson. I don't know exactly what Harry said, but Carson is certain you two are connected with the kidnapping." Dad's gaze sharpened. "I know my boys. I know you two would never, ever, be _knowingly_ involved in anything like that."

Great. So Dad thought they were unwitting dupes. Frank closed his eyes; his head was starting to pound.

"Dad, I told you, we _don't_ know," Joe said.

"You also said you weren't there, Joe. Carson's certain this whole food-poisoning business is a smokescreen, but believe it or not, your father can see Frank's really sick. Carson…well…he thinks I'm covering for my sons." Dad paused. "I hope he's wrong."

"He is. Dad…I was there. But I didn't see much." Frank stopped, waiting for the world to stop spinning. _Really sick_ was a massive understatement. "Joe, am I allowed aspirin or _anything_?"

"Considering Tag's had three doses of _her_ meds today, yeah, I'd say so." A rattle — Frank opened his eyes just as Joe placed a bottle of ibuprofen on the TV tray. "Trevor said you can go up to four of those."

Frank managed to gulp all four pills down with the juice, then waited to make sure they weren't going to come right back up. "I took Nancy to dinner, Dad. Down in the Castro —"

"One of the districts here," Joe added.

"I'm familiar with San Francisco," Dad said. "Believe it or not, your old man has traveled a bit. Go on."

"The waitress came back and said there was a call for Nancy from her father." Frank stopped, trying to remember the conversation.

"You didn't think that was suspicious?" Dad said. Calm. Even.

Frank shook his head — amazing, it didn't fall off. "Joe knew where we were going. He was going to meet us there with…with his girlfriend." Frank managed a thin smile. "He was going to foot the bill if I got Nancy to order the baby octopus."

"Did she?" Joe said.

"Let's just say I found out she speaks Japanese," Frank said dryly. "I did tell her it was all your idea."

"Wonderful. Get me in _more_ trouble."

"Boys…"

"Sorry, Dad." Frank closed his eyes again and sat back. Speaking was an effort, but he had to get this out. "I thought Carson had called here first and Joe gave him the number."

"I would have," Joe said, "if it was important."

"Nancy went to take the call — we were sitting at the back. Then people started screaming and I heard a gunshot —"

"A _gunshot?"_

Frank nodded. "I got up and ran for the front, but a lot of people were trying to get inside — I couldn't get there in time, Dad. I tried, I really did…"

Dad's rough hand squeezed his shoulder; it surprised Frank into opening his eyes.

"I know you did." Dad smiled himself, just a little. "My problem's always been getting you boys to stay _away_ from trouble."

Despite his pounding head, Frank relaxed; Dad didn't sound angry. "Thanks, Dad."

"That's more than he told the police, certainly," said another voice from the doorway. Harry Hammond, with Carson Drew just behind him.

God, Frank wasn't ready to deal with this. "That's exactly what I told the cops."

"Maybe I was misinformed," Hammond said. "I was told there was a fight between you and Miss Drew beforehand."

Frank grit his teeth. He definitely hadn't told the cops that — Nancy must've called Hammond from the hotel.

"There was." Joe's voice was tight, controlled. "But it didn't have anything to do with Nancy getting grabbed."

Frank didn't dare signal his brother to _shut up_ , not with Dad, Carson, and Hammond all right there, especially not with Dad standing over Frank and able to see any move Frank made.

Worse, his head was pounding again, as if someone squeezed just behind his eyeballs, and there was an odd ringing in his ears. Frank felt a flush of heat; he was sweating. Clenching his teeth against the nausea, he reached for the salted apple juice and took a few sips. It didn't help.

Glaring at the brothers, Carson pushed past Hammond. "Oh? And when were you going to tell us? My daughter could be _dead_ and you two are doing your damnedest to _hide_ the things that could help us _find her!"_

"Carson, please," Dad started, "Frank's just started telling me what happened —"

"Then we're here just in time," Hammond said. "So he can tell all three of us the whole story. What he _didn't_ tell the cops."

"And you can do that _out of my room!"_

Startled silence.

Pale, trembling, Kris stood in the archway, leaning on her arm braced against the wall. She looked ready to pass out.

"Pardon me, young lady?" Hammond said.

"You heard me." Kris wobbled forward, caught hold of Joe's shoulder for balance. " _Out. Of. My. Rooms._ "

Frank had never heard Kris sound like this. She was glaring at Carson and Hammond, but…

…no…wait…

…just _Hammond._

"Young lady, we're invited guests here," Carson said, "and these two boys were involved with kidnapping _my daughter!"_

"I don't care. I _own_ everything from that hall door out there back. As in, my apartment, my _property."_ Kris's grip on Joe's shoulder was white-knuckled. "And _you_ are neither invited nor wanted. _Leave._ "

Frank could understand Kris being upset over the intrusion, but there was such as thing as politeness, after all. "Tag, that's Nancy's dad, Carson."

"I'm not talking about him, big brother. _He_ knows exactly who I mean."

"Kris, dear," Dad looked from Kris to Hammond and back, "this is —"

"Harry Hammond," Hammond interjected smoothly, "Justice Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, assigned to the Nancy Drew kidnapping…"

 _Assigned?_ Frank stared at Hammond. Usually the FBI took a while to get started on a case. Between that and Hammond knowing about the fight…so Hammond _had_ been keeping tabs on Nancy.

"…maybe you'd like to rephrase that, young lady. Before —"

"She doesn't have to rephrase anything," Joe broke in, with heat, "because she's right. You can't just barge in here, Mr. Hammond. Kris isn't involved in this."

"And I don't care who you are," Kris said, trembling even worse. "You're trespassing. _Leave_."

Hammond continued to smile. "Maybe you didn't understand what I said. I'm with the FBI. I have the right to interview these young men, no matter where they are."

"No, you don't," Frank said, through clenched teeth. "Not unless you're in pursuit of wanted criminals."

"Are you implying I should be?"

"Harry, Carson, stop this." Dad stood up, his voice steel. "Go back out to the living room. This isn't helping Nancy at all."

"What," everyone jumped — Mar's voice, behind Carson and Hammond, "is all the yelling about?"

"It's okay, Mar," Dad said, "we're getting out of here."

"And who might _you_ be?" Hammond said to Mar.

Frank sank back into the couch, closing his eyes again. There would be blood on the floor in three, two…

"You know exactly who I am, Mr. Hammond," Mar said calmly. "As you do all those of the Tribes. But I'll play along. I'm Mar Mountainhawk, and that _young lady_ whom you are browbeating is _my daughter,_ who is seriously ill with food poisoning. I have every right to enforce the doctor's orders for _peace and quiet_. And since I heard her tell you to leave her apartment and neither of you have a warrant nor permission be in her residence…"

"Oh, we'll get the warrant, never fear," Hammond said.

"Fine," Mar said. "But until then, you are here _illegally._ Remove yourselves, or I will call security to remove you."

"You, yourself, invited me to stay here," Carson said, scowling.

"Not _here,"_ Mar said. " _This_ is my daughter's apartment, Carson. I explained to the setup of this building to you. Now, if you wish to debate the legalities of this, we can do so — calmly, like responsible adults — out in the common room."

"And if you think _Shimá_ would've let you stay if my big brothers had _anything_ to do with Nancy —"

"Kris, be quiet," Mar overrode her. "Go back to bed."

"Let her continue," Hammond said. "I'm interested in what all three of these young people have to say."

"Harry, Carson, _that's enough,_ " Dad said. "I'll meet you out there."

Carson opened his mouth again, but Hammond shook his head at him. Without another word, the two men turned and left.

"God…" With a muffled whimper, Kris collapsed against the wall and sank to the floor.

Looking uncomfortable, Dad stood there. "Kris, dear…I'm sorry…I didn't mean for all that…"

"It's okay, Mr. Hardy," Kris breathed, barely louder than a whisper, head in her hands. "You're okay. Really. It's not you at all. Just… _ow…"_

"Fenton, I don't mean to be rude," Mar said, "but please, go on out to the living room and see if you can talk sense into those two. Let me take care of my daughter."

"We'll be out in a minute, Dad," Frank said, though at the moment, he did not want to put himself back into that mess. Even the thought of getting up off the couch was too much effort at the moment.

"No, Frank," Dad gripped Frank's shoulder, "you're sick. Anyone with sense can see that. Harry was out of line. _No,_ Joe, you stay back here, too. I know Carson's not thinking clear, but if Hammond thinks he can browbeat you two…" Dad stopped, visibly got control of himself, then walked out.

The moment Dad left, Joe collapsed forward, caught himself on his hands, panting.

"God," Joe breathed. "God… _God…_ "

"Joe?" Frank said.

"Big brother," Kris whispered, "I'm sorry _…_ I didn't mean…I didn't have time to ask if it was okay…I had to hold the wards back…"

"It's okay, Tag," Joe said. "We didn't have time to work it out, after all. _Jesus,_ those wards of yours…"

"Both of you, settle," Mar said. "Frank, dear, lie down. You heard your father. Squirrel, you should be back in bed."

"Someone better explain," Frank said, looking at Kris and Joe.

"I was amping Kris," Joe said. "She hooked in during that — I guess to get the energy to stand up —"

"No, big brother," Kris whispered, eyes closed and tears streaking her cheeks — she looked exhausted. "He was — that man. It was…he was…oh gods… _Shimá…_ this…it's a snake pit, this whole thing…big brothers…"

"Kris…?" Frank said.

"Didn't you see?" Kris said to Joe. "The wards were a step from nailing him, and he _knew_ it. He was _deliberately_ provoking them."

"I did," Joe said, head in his hands. "Frank, Hammond's _Gifted_ , just like we thought…and now he's —"

"Calm yourselves, please," Mar said. "Hammond knew about this place before, remember. Simply being here gives him no access to anything in the Center. And we'll keep it that way as long as we possibly can."

"So he's played his hand too soon." Frank tried to think through the exhausted slog of his brain. "He's just revealed himself to everyone."

Kris's wards, ready to nail _Hammond?_ Wards were usually used as subtle alarm systems or to prevent others' Gifts from intruding where they didn't belong. Kris, though, with her abused background…no one crossed into her space without Kris knowing about it, and anyone who brought ill intent or violence back here could find that energy slammed in their faces.

Both Frank and Joe knew that; it made Kris's rooms a very peaceful, safe place, and Joe had been working on the brothers' own warding to emulate it.

Mar smiled at Frank. "Always the quick brain, even half-dead from stepping out. Yes, mostly."

Frank wanted to collapse. He couldn't help Nancy at all, not like this. Even if what he'd seen was right, and Nancy was somewhere around Embarcadero Center…all those office buildings were closed for the weekend. Running out there would accomplish nothing.

"Be aware of your choice, my son," Mar said.

"I am." Slowly, Frank pushed to his feet. Wobbly, but he could manage. "And Carson doesn't deserve to suffer just because Hammond's using this to get at the Center."

With a sigh, Joe levered himself up with his crutch. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"We tell the truth, like Dad asked," Frank said. "We just leave out all the Gifts. A cop was checking a hunch and asked us to do some research on the side, and we misunderstood. Simple enough, especially if we own up and admit it was our mistake."

"And Nancy's case?" Joe said.

"Coincidence. I would've given her all the info we had on those buildings if she'd asked. And I'll do the whole _bravely-bearing-up_ thing, being sick with food poisoning and all." Frank sighed. It wouldn't take any acting, given how he felt. "I'll never eat another hot dog as long as I live."

"I never got why you liked them to begin with, big brother," Kris said.

"It's a guy thing, Tag. Baseball stadiums and all that."

"Um…testosterone poisoning, you mean?"

"Something like that."

"So we'll be totally straight and up front," Joe said, starting to grin. "And since Hammond's been implying we're going to give them nothing but cock-and-bull…"

"You got it," Frank said, feigning energy he didn't feel. "Let's go watch the FBI squirm."

"No, my sons, you will not," Mar said.

That pulled Frank up short.

"I'm now speaking as not only the former head of the Blades, but as head of Council and with Eli's authority." Mar's expression, stance — the Implacable Indian Warrior, calm and immovable. "You will stay back here. You will not engage with Harry Hammond."

"This is our assignment, Mar," Frank said. "Joshua told _us_ to deal with it."

"And I _will_ get Joshua to back me on this, if you force the issue. No, Frank. I understand you and Joe want to take responsibility — that's admirable. But in this case, _you must not._ "

Frank said nothing. He was going to wait. Sick or not, exhausted and feeling like roadkill or not, he wasn't going to back down. Not until Mar explained, and even then…

"My sons, if you go out there. If you tell your story — and mind, I know only what you told us yesterday — you will be giving Hammond what he wants. _Information._ No matter how innocent, no matter how trivial you think it, _he will use it._ "

Frank went still. Dad's lectures about dealing with law enforcement, what had saved them earlier: _never say anything. Absolutely never, ever, say anything, no matter what._

Mar met Frank's gaze steadily. "He's shown _one_ card of his hand. Are you that certain of the rest?"

"She's right, Frank," Joe said.

"Joe?"

"He wants us," Joe said slowly. "He wants to grill us for whatever he thinks we have, because he thinks it'll give him leverage. Maybe it will, we don't know. We _can't_ know. So…we play defensive. We stay out of reach."

Frank thought that over…then sank back into the couch, giving in. "A waiting game, you mean."

Joe nodded. "So we can find Nancy. Then his investigation collapses under him and then…" He met his brother's gaze. "…game over."


	21. Hunting for Hidden Gold

_A/N: Sorry for the late post. Thanks to AlecTowser, Leyapearl, Caranath, Xenitha, & "Guest" for the reviews & comments! Guest: Mar hasn't run into Hammond personally, but knows of him & his history with supposedly "subversive" groups. The Native American/Indian rights movements that started in the '40s (and ongoing today) brought the Tribes into heavy conflict with the US Government over land & civil rights issues, and too many Indians have FBI/CIA files & surveillance, simply for demanding the rights & freedoms guaranteed to all US citizens. My characters are fictional; the Native American/Indian situation, unfortunately, is not.  
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One of these days, Joe would find whoever invented the phrase "early bird catches the worm" and beat the living tar out of them.

Sunday passed, boring and restless, with Joe playing nursemaid to Frank and Kris, with both playing much sicker than they actually were. Hammond had left shortly after the confrontation on Saturday and hadn't been back, but Carson camped out in the living room, glaring whenever Joe limped out to the kitchen to get food. However, they couldn't keep Dad out, not without excuses that would bring the bombs down, along with the entire building and half the city in the fall-out. But to Joe's surprise, Dad had _that_ smile on his face: he knew very well what his sons were pulling, but wasn't going to give them away.

Not yet, anyway. If Dad suspected that his sons _were_ hiding something, all bets would be off. It was a wonder that Dad had put Carson off this long, and a miracle that Hammond hadn't stormed the Center with warrant in hand. But Dad couldn't put Hammond off for much longer.

Hopefully, he wouldn't have to.

Early Monday — too early; the godawful hour of 9 AM was not meant for human beings, as far as Joe was concerned — he and Frank slipped out of the suite, leaving a note for Kris on where they were going. They didn't even stop for breakfast or coffee; the less chance of running into Dad or Carson, the better.

When they got down to the commons, Joe and Frank were assaulted by a small missile screaming " _¡Ángeles! ¡Ángeles!"_ Luckily Frank caught little Rita and swept her up onto her shoulders before she bowled Joe over.

"You're up early," Frank said as Rita wiggled, then gently interrupted the child's excited tumble of Spanish. _"Ritacita…_ English, remember?"

"I keep telling her." Emelio climbed over tables and chairs in a straight line towards the brothers. "But she don't listen."

" _Doesn't,"_ Frank said.

"Ease up, Frank, it's too early to play school teacher." Joe glanced up at the landing, just in case. They didn't need Carson to stroll through and catch them out in the open.

"If you two are done," Downs drawled, scowling, from the edge of the Commons, "my rug-rats have a dentist appointment. Rita, Eme, move. You can play later."

"Dentist," Joe said, glancing at Frank. "Downtown, by any chance?" Catching a ride and not having to worry about the Muni schedules would be worth dealing with the pain-in-the-neck for an hour or so.

Downs's gaze flickered up to the landing. "Outside," he said, with a jerk of his head, then herded the children out and waited until Frank and Joe had shut the doors behind them. "Kearney Street, as it happens, _Bait._ And no, you can't have a ride."

Kearney Street divided Downtown and Chinatown, just a hop-skip-jump from Embarcadero. The man could at least pretend to be polite. "Look, _Harold,_ you're supposed to be _helping —"_

" _Joe,"_ Frank said, soft warning.

"Look _yourself,_ _Bait._ Bad enough you two pretty boys got the FBI to invade the place —" Downs's glare gave no quarter, no mercy, "— but I _don't_ need your daddy and his friends constantly seeing you with my munchkins —" Downs nodded at Rita and Emelio, who watched the exchange with wide eyes, "— then deciding to get CPS involved because they think I'm buddy-buddy with a pair of possible _kidnappers_. _¿Comprende?"_

That brought Joe up short.

"Well? Would you and _pretty boy_ there like more examples of how you've screwed everyone over with this?"

"Back off, Harold," Frank said calmly. "If you know how we could've avoided it, we're all ears."

Downs snorted. "You're not worth the time, _pretty boy_. As I said, I've got an appointment to get to. But obviously you don't use your ears, either." Downs herded Rita and Emelio towards his car, then, as if on afterthought, spoke over his shoulder, quieter, "Embarcadero Center?"

Joe exchanged a quick look with Frank. "Yeah," Joe said. "Folks said the view from some of those buildings is pretty amazing."

Downs got the children into the car and shut the door, headed around to the driver's side. "Interesting fact. Weldon Rathbone lives in a penthouse in one of the towers down there. That's what the wife says. Make a side trip. Sneak up and throw yourselves off. Save us all the trouble."

"The guy married to Greata Delquist." Joe didn't need Frank's tight grip on his shoulder to tell him to keep cool. Something else was going on here.

Downs shrugged. "Got me. I just know he's our local hermit."

Rita and Emelio were watching through the car window. Punching out Downs in front of them was probably a bad idea. "Your dentist lives there, too?" Joe said.

"That's none of your damn business, _Bait."_ Downs slid into the driver's seat. "Enjoy the Muni ride."

"I really want to punch him out," Joe muttered. "After this is all over, I get to indulge myself. Remember that."

"Good luck with that," Frank murmured, looking around grounds. "He knows about your crutch now."

"I didn't say I'd use my crutch." Joe eyed the hill and the walk down to the Muni stop, and sighed. "Wonder if we can make it before the next one comes in?"

But, scowling, Frank was now gazing after Downs's car. "Come on. We're taking a junker."

That was unusual. Frank usually wanted nothing to do with driving downtown during Monday business hours, and that wasn't the only odd thing, either: Frank was acting spooked. Joe eyed him, but said nothing until they were in the car and halfway down the hill.

"Was it just me or was he acting weird?" Joe said. "That wasn't his usual _you-two-are-CIA-flunky-scum_ routine."

Frank kept his gaze on the road. "Yeah, that was odd. Something…" He fell silent.

"Maybe because of Rita and Eme. I know Josh and Eli have been on his case about that lately."

"He didn't call me 'mundane'," Frank said.

Joe was used to Frank's sudden topic changes when an idea hit — it was a habit the brothers shared. Joe waited; Frank would explain sooner or later.

Seeing Joe's expression, Frank breathed out an exasperated sigh. "Come on, Joe, he never lets up with that nonsense. But this time —"

"'Pretty boy'. But he's calls us that a lot."

"He calls _both_ of us that. He hits you with that stupid _bait_ thing —"

Joe scowled. _Bait_ was short for _gay-bait,_ something Downs had been taunting Joe with non-stop since the brothers had arrived last month. It didn't help that Joshua flirted with the brothers and called them _Beautiful_ and _Handsome_ whenever he wasn't being official, but Joshua's teasing was only in fun. Downs _meant_ it.

"— but I get the _mundane_ nonsense. Why not now? Rita and Eme don't care about that crap, and Downs doesn't care who hears him…" Then Frank stopped.

"Unless someone was listening that he _did_ care," Joe said.

"Someone who might interpret that _mundane_ the right way…" Frank said, "…like someone spying on the Center."

Joe caught the connection. "Downs is a 'path. So he'd know. Especially once we got outside the wards."

"He herded us outside because he didn't want Dad or Carson overhearing," Frank said, "but then found someone else was listening in. Hammond?"

"Bet on it," Joe said.

Frank's mouth was a tight line. Joe stared out the window, watching the passing Bay, bridge, buildings.

"If either of us ever say that 'how much trouble can she be' line again," Joe said finally, "I vote for dropping that person into the Bay, with concrete shoes and a Walkman with a tape-loop of that 'If' song duct-taped to his head."

"You'll have to catch me first," Frank said.

Luckily, they managed to get the parking garage close to the Port. The day was bright, the sky clear, the morning sun blinding. They grabbed bagels and coffee from a bakery-cart on the plaza (toasted and studded with raisins and cinnamon, and the cream cheese mixed with fresh strawberries), then the brothers crossed the Embarcadero to the Muni stop in front of the Port. Frank stood there a long time, staring at the skyscrapers and office buildings that made up the Financial District and Embarcadero Center.

"Well?" Joe said finally.

Slowly Frank shook his head. "Nothing looks like what I saw. _Nothing._ Tag said it — it all changes. I should've known — _I should've known._ There's no magic shortcuts. No such thing as a free lunch. We're back to the hard way and square one and Nancy…" Frank choked off, head bowed.

His brother, skeptical, _everything-has-to-make-sense_ Frank, having to deal with his own disbelief, the spooky stuff, whatever he'd encountered out in the _in-between_ — Joe wasn't going to let him off the hook that easy. "What else do you remember? Anything?" When Frank shook his head, Joe grabbed him by the shoulder. "I told you, don't second-guess this stuff. _What do you remember?"_

Frank sagged back against the rails of the stop with a frustrated sigh. "The Port. Something big and white, anyway. And…I thought I saw the Muni Station."

Joe nodded at the stop and the surrounding people waiting for the incoming line. "This?"

"No, not the stop. Embarcadero Station. That's what I thought it was. I couldn't tell. Something like a big metal spider. And the pyramid. We were up pretty high — it was hard to see."

Wait…Frank had said this before, and it'd slipped past Joe's brain. "'Up pretty high'? Like…from a penthouse?"

Now Frank was looking at him.

"The pyramid building's that way, past the park." Joe nodded that direction. "We can't see it from here."

"It wasn't the pyramid. I could see it, but that's not where we were." Frank stared out at the traffic and buildings.

"A tower around the Financial District," Joe said. "That's where the man lives, Downs said. That could be any of these, for all we know."

" _No."_ Frank's face lit, fierce and certain. "It'd have to be a tower he owned. And Nancy had that list of businesses in her notes."

"Not necessarily. He's a businessman, not a landlord." Joe settled against the railing and dug into his back pocket. He'd pulled that page out of the notebook before they'd left. "Here."

Frank frowned over the list. "Masters…Intercontinental…wait, California Street? That's near here." His gaze fixed on the office towers across the Embarcadero. "Come on."

When Frank got on the hunt, there wasn't anything Joe could do but follow…not that Joe minded. They were close, they had to be. And when they passed the 400 block of California and crossed Montgomery, Frank suddenly stopped. "The pyramid — that's what I saw. Look."

A couple blocks down Montgomery was the elegant Transamerica pyramid, one of the odder buildings in the city. "There's definitely no penthouse up there," Joe said.

"No, I saw that from where I was. We must be close." Frank looked around…then up. " _There._ That's it. _"_ He took off at a half-jog, until Joe yelped at him to slow down — dealing with a crutch in the middle of the heavy downtown pedestrian traffic during business hours was asking for a major accident. Frank looked impatient as Joe caught up, then took off again at a slower pace that Joe could match.

555 California was a tall skyscraper with ridges of window-bays running the full length of the tower, and an open plaza with marble benches — it was all familiar…then Joe remembered where he'd seen it: not good. But then he saw the street signs and scowled. Right at the intersection with Kearney Street.

Downs either had deliberately been a jerk or…well…was just being his usual jerk.

"Joe…"

Joe followed his brother's gaze to the massive chiseled-marble sign out front: _Rathbone Tower._

"This is it," Frank breathed. "It has to be it. _It has to be."_

"You know where this is, right?" Joe said as they went into the building through the huge smoked-glass doors. "They used this place in _The Towering Inferno._ The plaza out there, for all the outdoor shots."

Frank headed for the building directory in the center of the lobby, near the architectural displays of coming construction. "We'll come back with our cameras and play tourist later." He scowled over the listings: hundreds of names on the front and back, over fifty floors. "Great."

"If Rathbone's a hermit, he won't be listed." Joe scowled over the names himself. "He'll have some private elevator or key-only access —"

"That's what I've got you for," Frank said, and Joe rolled his eyes. But then Frank lowered his voice. "Feel anything?"

Joe settled against a nearby marble planter, brushing the ficus leaves out of his face as Frank sat next to him: just two guys taking a breather out of the sun, nothing out of the ordinary. "Something…" Joe murmured. "It's way up there — can't really tell down here." He shook his head. "It's not mage-Gift, but it's not whatever started those fires, either. I can tell that much."

"So we'll have to invade a busy office building so you can lie down and space out in the middle of the floor to get up close and personal with whatever they're doing up there," Frank said. "Piece of cake."

"Famous last words," Joe said, as they went back to look over the directory. But then something caught his eye. "'Brother…'"

"What?"

"No, ' _brother'._ Look." Joe levered himself down. Right there at the bottom of the listing, 51st floor: _Weldon Rathbone Foundation, A Brotherhood of Companies._

Frank's breath caught. _"Brother._ She must've meant _brotherhood._ 'It all leads back to the brother'…she was investigating the _entire_ Rathbone Foundation?"

Joe dug the notebook paper out again, unfolded it, laid it over the directory so that one of Nancy's doodles overlaid the logo. "It's the logo. It matches exactly." Joe looked up. "If she stumbled over something bigger than what everyone thought…"

He didn't finish the thought. For a multi-million-dollar corporation, dealing with a lone woman like Nancy would've been like swatting an irritating fly, with no hesitation or compunction.

"How much do you want to bet that this place is called Rathbone Tower because he lives here?" Frank said.

"You owe me too much pizza already."

Frank smiled — the first real smile Joe had seen from him since Nancy had been grabbed. "Well…then let's go have a talk with him."


	22. Secret in the Old Lace

_A/N: mauahahahahah. Thanks to Leyapearl, DuffyBarkley, Caranath, Xenitha, & the ever-anonymous "Guest" for the comments & reviews - and thanks to the second anonymous commenter who caught the Castro/Mission issue. Yes, Godzilla's restaurant Burn The Tail is in the Castro District, not Mission: I screwed up. Good catch!  
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If Rathbone couldn't take the hint, Nancy would _make_ the hint.

It'd been two long exhausting days — at least, she thought it'd been two days. It was hard to tell. Her sense of time felt skewed, everything draped in a dreamlike, cloudy haze that slowed her senses and dulled her mind unless she forced herself to focus on whatever was at hand.

In the first few hours, despite her efforts to stay awake, she'd drifted off several times, only to jerk semi-awake in a nightmarish panic in total darkness, not knowing where she was or even _who_ she was. She'd fumbled around the dark, unfamiliar room, trying to find the door, something, anything to help…and had stumbled into the footboard, ramming her foot into the bedpost. The sudden, excruciating pain jolted her fully awake and aware, and, fighting back screams, Nancy had doubled over against the carpet, biting her lip nearly through with the effort at staying silent.

She didn't want Rathbone to have any excuse to come in, not while she was helpless with agony. After what seemed like hours of rocking against the carpet, the pain finally ebbed enough for Nancy to limp to the small bathroom. Ugly: the skin broken and scraped, bleeding around the toenails, the outside two toes swelling and turning black and blue. She'd washed them off and taped them up as best she could with the gauze she found in the medicine chest, then settled into the room's only chair with her leg propped up on the bed.

At that point, the entire outer edge of her left foot was black and blue, swollen, and tender to the touch; she was certain both toes were broken. Enough to focus on, enough to keep her awake, enough to keep her enraged at Rathbone. She spent the rest of the night thinking of being home…of seeing Frank and apologizing for accusing him of spying on her. No matter what the Hardys were into, they would never be involved with a lunatic like Rathbone. Of that, Nancy was certain.

Rathbone's flunkies might not have known Frank was with her. Frank would've raised the alarm — Nancy thought she'd seen him in the lobby just before she'd been forced into the limo. The FBI would be in on this. _Hammond_ would know — she'd called him from the hotel to give him the low-down on everything she'd learned, and Hammond had let it slip that he was at the San Francisco FBI office.

That was an idea: let Rathbone know the FBI was onto him. Daddy would never give up and was smarter than the FBI and Fenton Hardy together. If Nancy could convince Rathbone that she'd keep quiet if he just let her go…

Sometime in the night, Rathbone had opened the door, had seen Nancy sitting in the chair — still in her own clothes, nursing her gauze-wrapped foot, and glaring at him with undisguised rage — and, smiling, Rathbone had informed her that there would be no food until she changed into proper clothes.

The door had shut before she could rush him and was locked by the time she'd reached it. Nancy could smell roasting meat and fresh bread…smells that had her stomach growling despite her attempts to ignore it. She hadn't had dinner, and lunch before that had been scanty. Hunger, exhaustion from the constant state of panic and rage — she sagged against the bed. Her head was pounding; it felt as if a tight band was wrapped around her skull and squeezing so hard that she couldn't concentrate.

She had to sleep. The headache was just exhaustion, panic, and fear. Denying herself sleep and food wouldn't help her at all.

But that locked door, with the lock and hinges on Rathbone's side and that insane kook thinking she was his wife…no, Nancy wasn't about to sleep out in the open, and definitely not in that queen-size bed. Instead, she'd piled the blankets and pillows in the closet and braced the bedding against the sliding door to interfere with its motion. Not perfect — it could still be opened — but the noise it would make when anyone tried would at least jolt Nancy awake enough to deal with whatever was going on.

Hopefully, anyway.

She'd slept fitfully, waking at the slightest noise, her dreams uneasy and odd. She _was_ Greata, wandering the rooms of a mansion with a handsome, dark-haired man who looked a little like Frank. He pulled her out to the garden, laughing at her hesitation and refusal…and the flowers had been dripping blood, turning their heads towards her…

Nancy jolted awake in the dark, cramped closet, not knowing where she was or _who…_ until her hand smacked the door. She sat up, then, with a soft gasp of pain, bent over her lap, rubbing at her temples. The headache was still there, a dull ache that wouldn't go away.

Daylight filtered in, and she cracked the closet door open to make sure the room was empty before easing out. She couldn't hear anything through the bedroom door. She studied it a long moment, tentatively knocking on it and rattling the doorknob. It sounded and felt solid; there wasn't even a keyhole on her side to pick.

Favoring her aching foot, Nancy prowled the room over and over. No mirrors. No glass anywhere in the room, save the windows. Windows: not only barred, but too high up to jump or climb down — one of the skyscrapers. Still in San Francisco, thankfully: Nancy could see that weird pyramid building from the window and the Bay beyond that. She debated smashing the window with the furniture, but that wouldn't accomplish anything but freezing her out. If the windows were safety-glass, they wouldn't even break into shards large enough to use for weapons.

Finally, Nancy decided to give in on one thing: it wouldn't help if she starved herself. That'd just make it easier for Rathbone to control her. The dress draped over the bed wasn't too bad — full and loose enough to allow movement, especially if she stayed barefoot and didn't bother with nylons. With her broken toes, she had an excuse to stay out of those stupid stiletto heels that had been set out with the dress.

Rathbone opened the door, saw her in the dress, and beamed. But then he looked her over. "What happened to your foot, Princess?"

Her head throbbed, a sudden spike of pressure that had the edges of her vision going gray. Nancy focused on her foot as she debated answering: maybe playing up the injury would put him off-guard. "I broke my toes," she said carefully. "I ran into the bedpost during the night."

Rathbone frowned. "I didn't hear anything."

He had to have seen it when he'd come in earlier, but then again, he was obviously someone who never paid attention to anything outside of himself. "It was really late. I was yelling for help and no one came." There. Inflict a bit of guilt.

Rathbone's face grew troubled, but he offered his arm and helped her up.

Barefoot, with two broken toes, the known escape routes locked — best to stay calm, try to relax, and eat to keep her strength up. Act polite and docile; let him think she'd given in. Play it smart, study the situation, then grab the first chance that presented itself. Accepting his arm, Nancy didn't bother hiding her limp or the extreme pain as Rathbone escorted her to the dinner table, and she sank into the offered chair with relief.

Breakfast, as it turned out. Scrambled eggs topped with smoked salmon and chive, home fries smelling of garlic and pepper, thick toast with butter and honey, coffee.

Nancy wasn't fooled. Coffee poured from the same pot, fresh orange juice from the same carafe: both likely safe enough. Ditto the honey, and the buttered toast was served on a common platter. But the eggs and potatoes were served separately: Rathbone's eggs were sunny-side-up, his potatoes hash browns. Nancy picked at her food, trying to determine if they were safe and not drugged. No way to tell. Hunger finally won out, though she tried to stick to the toast and salmon as least likely to be drugged.

But then Rathbone surprised her. He excused himself, went to another room, came back with a bottle, which he set down by her plate: ibuprofen.

"Four of those are equal to prescription strength, my princess," Rathbone said. "I'll have Coleman send up my private doctor to have a look at your toes." He frowned at her plate. "You're not eating, Greata. Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs is one of your favorites."

The headache increased; the pressure felt like someone was squeezing her eyeballs. Private doctor — likely someone bribed to stay quiet. Maybe someone Nancy could guilt-trip, someone who would notify the police for fear of being in deeper trouble when Rathbone was caught.

"Greata?"

"Sorry. It's the pain. It's causing a migraine, and I'm really queasy." Still, best to keep him happy. Get him to relax and drop his guard. Nancy took a small bite of the eggs.

Smiling, Rathbone tapped the pill bottle. "Four of those, Princess. Go on now."

Unlikely that the pills were anything other than what was on the label. Nancy shook four of them out — they looked like generic ibuprofen — and accepted a glass of water to swallow them with.

"I have stronger, if you need it," Rathbone said. "I have a supply of decent painkillers, so I won't bother the doctor over every little thing." His expression darkened. "He says it's all in my mind."

She wasn't about to willingly take stronger drugs, not with a lunatic who thought she was his wife. But Nancy still couldn't help a small smile. "Try being a woman. Then it's all 'typical female complaining'."

There. Build rapport. Remind him she was human. Get him sympathetic. Anything she could use that would give her an edge, that would ensure she'd survive.

"Doctors, bah." Rathbone shook his head, spread honey over another piece of toast. "It never occurs to them that we may know our own bodies better than they do, but you can never get them to believe that. Neurovascular dystrophy — ever hear of that, my dear?"

Dystrophy…like muscular dystrophy? But Nancy shook her head. Keep him talking. Let him think she was subdued. Now that she'd eaten, some of the fuzzy-head feeling had cleared away, enough that she could take a good look at her surroundings. The session at the Center with that tough guy, Drake, was coming back to her: he'd impressed her with his harping on "street attitude", even as he'd drilled everyone in basic moves to break holds and disable attackers. Anything could be a possible weapon, a potential means of escape, a weak point that could be exploited.

They seemed to be alone. No servants, no one else that Nancy could even hear. Table: pot full of _hot_ coffee, perfect for throwing in someone's face or dumping in their crotch…butter knives could work in a pinch, and the forks felt solid enough for stabbing…break one of the plates into razor-sharp shards…no. Any of those options would work if she was in the open and only needed to disable an attacker long enough to run away, but here? She needed to buy enough time to by-pass the elevator security or to pick the padlock on the stairs.

Attacking first would only end with Rathbone getting angry and likely turning violent, not unless she was absolutely certain she could knock him out. Killing him was out, unless it came down to life or death. It would only heap a lot more trouble on her head than it would solve.

Rathbone was watching her…and smiling.

"Look, here, Princess." Rathbone laid his right arm on the table between them; the hand and wrist looked swollen and red. "I was flying one of our test planes — it would've been the fastest in the world. But the engine failed. Two months I was in the hospital. Heh…they _wanted_ me to die. But I showed them. I showed them all." He frowned at his right hand. "But this. Something in the nerves, that dystrophy. It still burns me, all the time, despite all the fancy medicines they want me to take."

"Was that before or after you married Greata?" Noted: his right hand and arm were weak. Potential attack point.

Rathbone looked at her…then chuckled. "Nice try, Princess. Drop this silly facade. You know full well when that was, just as I know what you're planning. I always know what you're doing. Did you really think I didn't know whose child it was?"

"Child?" Nancy said, confused by the topic change.

"Oh, I let you have it. I paid for its care. I raised it as ours. I went along with your little whim." Rathbone bared teeth; it didn't look like a smile. "It was a decent distraction, until you stole it away, too. Whatever happened to it, by the way?"

"I told you, I'm not Greata," Nancy said, from gritted teeth. "I have no idea who you're talking about."

Silence.

Then Rathbone stood up. "You've eaten enough, Greata. It's ten a.m. Time for our daily entertainment." He took hold of her arm.

 _Daily entertainment_ …? Over her dead body! But Nancy let him pull her to her feet, just enough for her to stand and get her balance as best she could with her broken toes.

Then she twisted, broke his grip, and grabbed the first thing at hand — the coffee pot — and settled into defensive stance. Let him _try!_

With a sigh, Rathbone only stood there. "Stop this foolishness, Greata. I've waited long enough for you to get accustomed to being back. You owe me recompense."

Her headache spiked in a blinding surge of pain; the room spun and dipped. Graying out, Nancy staggered and dropped the pot, splattering coffee everywhere and bringing her back to _now_ as the hot liquid splashed against her bare shins. She caught herself, backed up against the wall.

His gaze boring into her, Rathbone moved closer. "This is doing you no good. You are my dear, dear Greata. You've come back to me, Princess. Let me welcome you back, just as we used to."

Nancy grit her teeth against the pain and dizziness. The pills had to have been drugged after all. But it shouldn't be taking effect this fast — maybe it had been the food…

Elevator, stairs, locked down. Her bedroom — she couldn't block the door. But the other rooms…maybe…if she could break past him and get to a bathroom…

"Greata…"

His gaze held her. Exhaustion swept through her; she was drowning in warmth, as if wrapped in loving arms. Dizzy, she sagged back against the wall; she was tired, so tired. It wasn't Rathbone — a younger, handsome man, nicely muscled with thick hair that made her fingers itch to run through it. Running seemed pointless, fighting wouldn't do her any good — why fight? This handsome young man seemed so strong…so kind…

"Yes. That's it, my dear. You're tired." His warm hand touched hers, then he pulled her gently away from the wall. "You need to rest. I'll help you rest, dear, dear Greata."

She staggered…and a surge of pain from her broken toes jolted through her. Nancy shook her head again, tried to pull away, but found herself staring into those dark eyes.

"There," he said. "Yes, that's it. That's exactly what you want."

The pain fell away, distant and forgotten. Resistance evaporated; she felt sluggish, dizzy, weak, enveloped in haze. She couldn't move, as his arms wrapped around her, warm and protective.

"Come along and rest," the handsome young man said with Rathbone's voice, pulling her gently towards the bedroom. "We're just going to lay down a while…"


	23. Crimson Flame

_A/N: Thanks to DuffyBarkley, Katie Janeway, Wendylouwho10, Caranath, & AlecTowser for the reviews & comments!_

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Holding himself still and calm, Frank waited by the elevator, mindful of Joe fidgeting next to him. This had to be it. It had to be. But looking over the building, the layout, doubts were building — how could the kidnappers have gotten Nancy in here? It was a busy office building. Just in the lobby, there were easily twenty people: at the information desk, short-cutting through to the other side and streets, sitting on the concrete planters and drinking coffee — the kidnappers would've been spotted. Someone would've seen, would've reported it.

"You know…" Joe said hesitantly, "…even if Rathbone's involved, it doesn't mean Nancy's up in his penthouse."

"I know," Frank said, not looking at him. "But it's the only lead we've got. I know what I saw out there."

"What would he _want_ with her? The man's got to be over seventy years old…" But then Joe cut himself off, looked away.

Frank wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't going to snap that Joe should _know_ what an old man would still be capable of. Someone who would resort to kidnapping wasn't a good person, and his brother knew that. He had the scars to prove it.

That was assuming Nancy was still alive.

She had to be. Frank wouldn't let any other option exist. He'd failed Joe in New Orleans. He would not fail Nancy.

The elevator dinged. The ride up was mostly silent, though the elevator seemed determined to stop at every floor, exchanging one set of generic passengers for another. They hit the fortieth floor and stopped yet again to let out a pair of chattering women in summer dresses, leaving the elevator empty save for the brothers. But the doors closed and the elevator started moving before Joe finally spoke again.

"You know they're not going to let us in there."

"I know," Frank said evenly. "I just want to see the layout of the place before we storm the castle."

"Then we mouse-trick and come back, you mean." Joe sighed. "Let's hope the security's minimum-wage goons too stupid to get better jobs."

"Something like that." Frank was already thinking that over. It made sense that Rathbone would have guards of some sort, some type of security system. The mouse-trick wouldn't hold against alert guards who questioned everyone, and Joe hadn't yet gotten enough fine control to mess with electronic locks magically.

Floor forty-two, and the elevator stopped again, letting in a young woman in an ugly green sweater, with a leather handbag that was comically too large for her slight frame; she was as small as Kris was. Joe smiled at her, but Frank fumed silently, though he kept his face set in pleasant calm. No sense letting everyone in the building know why he was here.

Shifting from foot to foot, the young woman smiled nervously back at Joe. "Heading up top?"

Joe nodded. "We've heard the view's really good up there."

"I'm surprised anyone would want to chance these buildings now," the woman said. "With the fires and all, I mean."

"Well, yeah, we're daredevils," Joe said dryly. "Danger's our middle name."

Trying to stop Joe from flirting was like holding back an aircraft carrier. Still, someone had to try. "You want me to tell her what your middle name _really_ is?" Frank said calmly.

The woman giggled. "Maybe I should try to guess, like Rumpelstiltskin. Or would that make you vanish into thin air?"

"Maybe," Joe said.

Great, another fairy tale fanatic. "I don't suppose your name is Tagalong, too?" Frank said.

The woman looked confused. "What?"

"Never mind," Frank said. "You just reminded me of someone, that's all."

Ten more floor-stops and twenty-seven middle-names later, they reached floor fifty-one; the woman got out with them, but turned towards the other end of the elevator lobby. Frank stood for a minute, getting his bearings. Walking behind a passing group of businessmen wouldn't work. Neither he nor Joe were in suits, and Joe's crutch made him very obvious — handicapped employees were usually the most well-known in any workplace.

"Big fancy building, but they can't afford good taste," Joe muttered, scuffing his crutch on the carpet. "What is it about lime-green and these places?"

"Says the guy in the leather jacket too small for him."

"That's not my fault. Jamie —" Then Joe shut up.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "What, she took you to Finnochio's again?"

Joe had gone red. Smiling, Frank turned the opposite direction from the passing suits. Focus. There was business.

They spent some time walking the whole floor. There was a small lobby at the east end of the building, with windows that looked out over the Bay and people smoking and taking a coffee break. Stairwells at both ends. A small access hallway led to freight elevators and a janitor's room. Only a quarter of the offices on this floor appeared to be occupied. They passed the Rathbone Foundation area, which took up the Pine Street side of the floor; the ferret-y blonde receptionist barely glanced at them as they went by.

"Here." Joe stopped; he'd been testing random doorknobs as they'd walked. "It's not locked."

They slipped in to the unoccupied office; Frank set his back to the door to prevent anyone from walking in on them. The room was storage: desks, chairs, and empty filing cabinets stacked on top of one another, newspapers piled on shelves along the walls. Joe eased to the floor against the near wall and pulled the notebook paper out of his pocket. He laid it in front of him, his left hand resting on it, then closed his eyes, breathing slow and deep.

Frank settled into guard mode, paying attention to sounds out in the corridor and keeping a weather eye on Joe. There was no rushing this. If there was magic involved, if anyone Gifted was involved, they had to know. They had to be prepared.

"Dear God…" Joe had opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling and blinking as if dazed. He looked sick.

"Bad?"

"You could say that." Rubbing at his forehead, Joe shook his head. "Something's right above us. It feels sticky and…and… _greedy._ Best way I can put it. Thick, sticky, grabby-hands wards. It's not mage-Gift, though."

"Tag thought it felt like something Vão did."

"Empathy, you mean. Maybe. I heard a lot of screaming in it…like a little kid tossing a tantrum in the sandbox _._ That's the immediate image I get." Eyes closed, Joe breathed out heavily. "When we get back, Tag's going to _make_ time to sit and work with us. We have to figure out how to get signature off stuff besides mage-Gift."

"Nancy," Frank said.

Joe nodded, eyes still closed.

"Alive?"

"Come over here and see for yourself."

What…? Frank hesitated for a long moment, but curiosity was a strong draw. He scooted over; Joe took Frank's left hand and laid it on top of the paper.

"I talked with Tag a lot yesterday," Joe said. "I figured this out — it should work. I tried it with her a little, and it impressed her."

Frank gave him a _look._ He wasn't going to say it.

His brother smiled. "I'm letting you borrow a bit of my Gift. Sort of. I'm connecting through you and you're connecting through me and we're both borrowing your connection to Nancy —"

"You sound like Tag," Frank said dryly.

"Just _listen,"_ Joe said _._ "Listen like you did out there."

Closing his eyes, Frank tried to remember what that had felt like, what he'd done. He wasn't Gifted; no one could pay him enough to make him that way, either. But Kris had said it: he and Joe were connected, bonded through blood, friendship, family…and as for Nancy, Frank _wanted_ that connection. Friendship…and more than…

Something tore at him, pulling him _up —_ then _jolted_ through him in a screaming rage and bound him in the paralysis of senseless fear and pain.

… _someone held him down, smiling into his eyes even as he screamed…_

With a yell, Frank tore loose…just as Joe scrabbled back, stopping a few feet away with one arm raised to fend off a blow, before sagging back against the wall.

"Holy Christ," Joe breathed, staring up.

"Come on." Jaw clenched, Frank got to his feet, helped Joe up. "We're getting up there, now. No matter what we have to do."

"Frank…" Joe dragged him to a stop. _"That wasn't all Nancy."_

" _Don't even think of talking me out of it!"_

"You said _up._ I wasn't just reaching _up_. I was feeling out this whole part of the building, just in case Rathbone had stashed her somewhere else. _You_ said up. But not all of that was _up."_

Frank stared at his brother. "You're not an Empath."

Joe shook his head. "I was trying to connect Rathbone, too. Through that symbol. The arsons are connected to all this, and I keep feeling that _blood_ is all through it, but not like Thatcher. Like you and me, but not really."

Suddenly Frank made a connection. "The doll. Jamie told us she was seeing everything from it like a child would…and those gossip mags said the actress had a baby. They also said…what was her name…Greata…disappeared."

"So what happened to the kid?"

"They didn't say," Frank said grimly, thinking of Kris and all the kids at Wings. No, they never mentioned the children. Children weren't important. Abuse wasn't talked about; it wasn't even _thought_ about. Kids belonged to their parents, and that was it. No one else's business. Everyone knew kids made stories up, after all.

Everyone who hadn't seen the scars, anyway.

Frank made sure the hallway was clear before he and Joe slipped back out and headed towards the Rathbone area. The ferret-y receptionist spotted them the moment they turned the corner and smiled pleasantly as they came straight up to her desk.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?"

Behind her, an elevator with a security keypad. Frank kept his gaze on the receptionist. He and Joe hadn't planned for this part, but maybe being blunt would shock some information out of her. "We're here to see Mr. Rathbone."

 _That's what they all say_ , her face said. "Mr. Rathbone never sees anyone. May I ask what this concerns?"

"Kidnapping," Joe said.

Somehow Frank kept his expression calm. He'd planned to play slightly stupid — let her think they were a couple SFSU frat boys on a dare. But...like that? Blunt was one thing, but for Joe to just come out and say it like that…

Openly incredulous, the woman stared. "What?"

"We're investigators in the Nancy Drew kidnapping," Joe said. "We need to see Mr. Rathbone urgently."

It was several seconds before the woman replied, staring at them as if they'd lost their minds. Finally she smiled again — distinctly forced — and turned her attention back to the papers on her desk. "That can't possibly have anything to do with him." Her tone was open condescension. _We're done here. Stop bothering me._

"We'll let him decide how much it has to do with him," Frank said. Pleasant, calm idiot — let her feel superior. See what slipped out.

"Mr. Rathbone is a _recluse."_ The woman's tone was that of kindergarten teacher talking to a slightly stupid child. "He hasn't left his penthouse in over twenty years. He can't possibly be involved in whatever happened to that girl. If you wish, you can speak with Mr. Coleman."

Two men had come up behind the receptionist and stopped in front of the elevator to talk in low tones. One — a man who looked like a balding porn actor in a gray suit — punched four numbers into the keypad. He looked familiar.

"It has to be Rathbone," Frank said, watching the men.

The balding man turned at that — and his gaze settled on Frank. "Problems, Mary?" he said to the receptionist.

"None, Mr. Coleman. Just some young detective wanna-be's who want to see Mr. Rathbone, that's all."

"Do they, now." Coleman's gaze slid to Joe…and his face hardened.

Oh…no. Suddenly Frank realized where he'd seen the man.

In front of Nancy's hotel.

But now Joe had a grip on Frank's arm. "It's all right," he said to the receptionist. "Sorry to have bothered you. Let's go, Frank."

"I wondered why you looked familiar," Coleman said, his gaze back on Frank. "I saw you two on the news. You're accused of kidnapping that young lady, I believe."

"It's amazing what the news gets wrong," Frank said calmly.

"Yes," Coleman said. "Amazing."

Behind Coleman, the elevator dinged and opened; Joe was tugging Frank away. Coleman looked about to say more, but the other man caught his attention again. By that point, Joe had managed to get Frank down the hall, heading towards the elevators.

"Coleman was shielded," Joe said, in a low, low undertone. "And I'm certain they were his shields."

Just before they rounded the corner, Frank glanced back; the receptionist was still watching them. Coleman wasn't in sight, and the private elevator had shut. "I recognized him. He was out front of Nancy's hotel with the limo."

Joe blew out a heavy breath. "Wonderful. Just great. Let me go ahead and really tempt fate, while we're at it — _can this day get any worse?"_

Frank smiled thinly. "I get to duct-tape the Walkman to your head."

"Yeah, well, my vote's for getting out of here fast and calling Dad from the closest pay phone," Joe said. "We tell him exactly what we did, minus the magic, and that you recognized Coleman, and let _hi_ _m_ call in the FBI."

Frank didn't want that at all. He wanted to go charging up there, wanted to take out Rathbone and whoever else was hurting Nancy, wanted to get Nancy out immediately. He forced himself to still. He didn't know what was up there, other than some type of magic that Joe couldn't positively identify…and Coleman…and Rathbone…and Nancy…

"We can't go up there, Frank," Joe said softly. "We don't know what they've got. Neither of us are armed. We'd be dead men walking the moment we stepped out of the elevator."

Frank looked away. He'd heard gunshots at the restaurant, so someone up there could be armed. Charging in would only get them killed. It wouldn't help Nancy at all, and would likely get _her_ killed, if the kidnappers got desperate.

New Orleans, all over again.

Joe gripped his shoulder, and Frank saw the memory in his brother's eyes: Joe knew it, too.

"Yeah," Frank muttered, and turned towards the elevators. "I saw a payphone in the lobby."

But Joe hadn't moved, looking around. "Do you smell something burning?"

"There were people smoking down the hall." But even as he said that, Frank could smell it: definitely not cigarettes. Burning paper, scorched plastic, similar to when Tag had put a plastic sandwich bag in the microwave.

"Frank…"

Joe had halted by an office door and was reaching for the doorknob — then Frank saw that there was smoke coming from under the door…

" _Joe, no!"_

Charging, Frank barreled into his brother, grabbing him and tackling him —

— just as the door and hallway exploded.


	24. Demon's Den

_A/N: Thanks to Barb, DuffyBarkley, Wendylouwho10, Caranath, & Xenitha for the reviews & comments!  
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Stunned, Joe lay there as the doorway erupted into flames and chunks of charred wood, wall, and ceiling tile crumbled to the floor. Frank scrambled to his feet.

"Straight-A's in science and you open a door with _smoke_ under it?!" Frank snarled as he lunged for the fire alarm.

Make one mistake, pay for it in brotherly sarcasm the rest of your life. Joe struggled to his feet — people were yelling and gathering at both ends of the hallway; alarm bells were now ringing through the whole floor. Frank had grabbed the fire extinguisher and was spraying it into the room; Joe peered in, looking for anyone hurt, and his breath caught.

In the middle of the floor lay a small doll.

"I see it," Frank snapped. "Stop gawking, Joe — get people back!"

The room was aflame despite Frank's efforts; the heat and smoke pouring into the hall were incredible. Finally Frank threw the extinguisher aside, grabbed Joe and helped him towards the group of frightened, panicking people huddling in the hallway, staring and gabbling — some clustered around the elevators, pounding on the buttons and doors.

Frank shoved Joe toward them, then pushed past. "Go on, get out of here!"

"Where are _you_ going?"

"Someone's got to get to Nancy. _Go!_ I'll catch up with you!"

"Are you _crazy? And you called_ me _an idiot?"_

"Josh said _'Whatever it takes',"_ Frank snarled. "Get moving or I'll throw you down the stairs myself!"

Another explosion shook the floor, and people screamed. Farther down the hall, flames burst from another office, licked up the walls and started on the ceiling.

"You'll just slow me down." Frank shoved Joe towards the elevators, then yanked out of Joe's grip and shoved through the panicking people to run for the Rathbone offices.

Both he and Frank had to have been at the end of the line when God handed out common sense. Gritting his teeth, Joe tried to push through the people to follow, but his crutch and limp hampered him — the crowd was panicking. The smoke and flames thickened and roared, people were screaming, and no one seemed to know what to do…

With a thrust of energy, Joe flung a brilliant flash of light up over their heads. Startled faces jerked around to look at him; Joe shoved at the people closest to him. " _People! Stairs!"_

Bellows echoed from the Rathbone end of the hall — security guards ordering folks to head for the stairs. Heat and flame roared behind Joe, as the people at the elevators finally got the idea and scurried towards the stairwell. Joe got shoved against the wall and nearly went down; swallowing panic, he somehow kept to his feet, kept moving — wait… _wait_ …fire was heat and light and _energy,_ just like…

 _God, let this work!_

Joe threw another surge of energy out, shoving back at the fire and smoke — just in time, as the fire hit a janitor's cart in the corridor and _exploded_. It rammed into his magic and engulfed the rest of the corridor in a fiery wall that shoved and pushed and roared at the magic —

He couldn't hold it. Smoke and heat still poured through, and the energy buckled under the intense pressure of the fire — coughing, choking, Joe scrambled away as best he could, following the stragglers through the smoke to the Rathbone offices and the stairwell there. No sign of Frank or anyone else. Joe stumbled to the private elevator and punched the buttons on the keypad — he had to get up there. If he could hot-wire the security somehow, magically…

No light from the buttons, no sound beyond the elevator doors. Dead…

 _Oh God…_

Then, inexplicably, from around the corner that led back into the Rathbone offices — someone laughed.

A fast glance down the corridor at the fire — not much time — but Joe struggled around the corner and into the office area, only to pull up short.

The entire far wall was aflame.

 _How?_ The fire had started at the other end of the building!

Then Joe saw someone backing towards him, the small woman with white-blonde hair and a ridiculously large purse — and she was laughing.

And then he knew.

"You," Joe said.

Her startled gasp rang through the room, over the roar of flames. The woman rounded, saw Joe, and froze.

He didn't need Sight to see it — the woman was haloed in vivid energy, the same energy he'd felt at the Roberts' Tower, flame-lets dancing in the air around her.

"I don't care who you are or why you're doing this," Joe said, before the woman could say anything. "We have to get out of here. _Now._ "

"Just like _him."_ Light glittered in her eyes; flames danced in the air around her. "Just like him — a greedy, lying _bastard —_ only care about your own _precious skin—"_

It was all the warning Joe got. Fire flashed out, a roaring, ravening wave that ignited the walls, the paper, the cloth, everything in its path - it shocked into his shields, throwing him against the wall. Joe's head cracked against metal…

The woman fled past him, out to the corridor beyond.

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The elevator was a huge risk, Frank knew it, but he had to take it. He didn't know where the stairs up would be, and with Rathbone being so notoriously private, any stairs would be locked. While Frank had the lock-picks on him, there was no time to waste searching or fumbling with locks..

Frightened people milled around the receptionist's desk, until a security guard _bellowed_ at them to get to the stairs and more people shoved past the guard and ran for the stairwell. No one paid attention to Frank — everyone was too concerned with saving their own skin, the first guard directing people towards the stairs, two others helping a handicapped employee —

 _Think,_ Frank had to _think,_ he had to _remember!_ Coleman had punched four numbers, his hand had been positioned _here,_ his fingers had moved in…this sequence…

First try: a green light flicked on at the top of the keypad.

Relief and panic flood through him. Frank looked up: the first security guard had spotted him. No time: Frank stumbled up to the man and let his panic loose.

"You've got to help," Frank blurted out, gesturing down towards the elevators. "Down there — they're panicking at the elevators and they don't know about the stairs here — they won't listen and the fire's down there!"

The guard blinked — Frank had changed from _some idiot_ to _someone getting help_ — then ran down the hall, just as the elevator behind Frank dinged.

God, let it work long enough to get up there, please…

The smoke was thick, even in the elevator, making his eyes sting and water; a handkerchief over his mouth and nose helped some, but not much. Long seconds later, the door opened — Coleman and an older man stood staring out the windows and when the elevator opened, both turned to stare stupidly at Frank.

No time for introductions or niceties or good-guy-bad-guy heroics. "The whole building's on fire," Frank snarled. "The floor below's still got a clear run to the stairs, but if you want to get past me and get out _alive,_ you answer one question. _Where's Nancy?"_


	25. The Counterfeit Criminals

_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, AlecTowser, Xenitha, Leyapearl, Barb, & DuffyBarkley for the reviews & comments!  
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Next time her big brothers slipped out of any place and left her trying to explain to _anyone_ what was going on, Kris was going to get Joshua to assign them latrine duty for the whole Center for the next _century_.

"Look, Kris, stop stalling! Where did my sons go?"

"Mr. Hardy, _I don't know!"_

Kris had shown both Fenton and Carson the note: _We're going to The Embarcadero to run down leads -_ which meant nothing, really, because The Embarcadero ran the whole two-mile length of the Wharf and piers. They were in the living room, Mar right there along with Joshua — who was in his camos and black t-shirt, playing Big Scary Former-Military Black Man to the hilt — all of them trying to calm Fenton and Carson down…not that it succeeded.

"And _what_ leads?" Carson snarled. "They can't possibly have any more leads than the FBI! _What are you hiding?"_

The whole miserable weekend — dealing with her big brothers — Frank being so desperate that he'd drained himself to the point he'd nearly _died —_ and this idiot was accusing her of hiding? _"You tell me,"_ Kris snapped. "Tell me why they should trust you, Mr. Drew. You accuse them of all sorts of crap that there's no way either of them would ever do, and then you wonder why they don't bother telling you _anything_?"

" _Kris,"_ Mar said.

"Frank's been sick to death, and _Shimá_ and Joe had to sit on him so he wouldn't kill himself over the food poisoning — and the minute he's feeling a little better, he and Joe head out immediately to try to find her…and you want to _yell_ at them for that?"

"Eye for eye leaves everyone blind," Joshua murmured.

"How about we all calm down?" Fenton said.

"' _Calm down'?"_ Carson said. "Your sons get involved in this…this…place…and my daughter goes missing after being here, and you're telling me —"

"'This place'?" Mar said.

At that point, Carson shut up. Fenton, though, hesitated. "Hammond's made all kinds of insinuations about you, Mar," Fenton said finally, quietly. "About this place and the people living here."

" _Fenton,"_ Carson said.

"I know you're upset, Carson," Fenton said, "but I've known Mar for years. Maybe Harry's right…but I know Mar."

"Well, since I've got the poor taste to be an _Injun,_ " Mar said, with enough of an edge that Carson winced, "I can guess what kind of insinuations Hammond's made. But…'this place'. Let me guess. We're some kind of weird 'cult' and Frank and Joe have been thoroughly brainwashed."

"My vote's for subversive Communist whackos _,_ darlin', _"_ Joshua said, his Louisiana-Cajun accent noticeably thick: not good. "That's still in fashion."

"Try both," Fenton said.

"I don't know about Communist," Mar said. "Maybe some folks here think that way, I don't know. 'Commune' might apply, since we all own the building…"

"Cooperative housing," Joshua said. "And if either of you care to look at the city's housing market, you might just understand why we went that way. I _own_ a house out there, darlin's. Care to guess what my mortgage payment is?"

"Tell them what you're asking for rent for your garret," Kris said. "And that you've got a bidding war going on."

"Look, all this is fascinating, but…" Carson started.

"As for the 'cult' part," Mar overrode him, "I'm _really_ surprised at you supposedly intelligent men. No, Fenton, let me finish. You and Carson are both here. You've had free access to your sons —"

"I haven't," Carson said.

" _You_ aren't their father. And my daughter has the right to throw people out of her rooms, just as you would from your own house. Given how you and Hammond acted, she acted _much_ too politely."

"No argument there," Fenton said, with a sharp look at Carson. "I was ready to do that myself."

"Frank and Joe can come and go as they please. No one here _cares._ Just as no one cares what _you_ do, unless you invade their privacy. Just like no one here _cared_ that your daughter was here, other than she was Frank and Joe's friend." Mar paused, watching both of them. Then, when neither spoke, "Well? Has anyone been preaching at you? Made you join in a sing-a-long? Forbidden you from eating or leaving or watching TV or anything like that?"

"They're doing Korean in the café, _"_ Joshua said. "I'd be more worried if someone _didn't_ tell 'em to avoid the food today."

"True," Mar said, smiling slightly.

"There's flowers up on the roof," Kris said. "I could always grab some and try to sell them to you."

Now Fenton sighed. "You'd look horrible with a shaved head, dear. Okay. Points all taken. Kris, you have no idea where my sons went? Nothing they said?"

Why they couldn't just wait for Frank and Joe to come back… But Kris thought it over, aware of Joshua watching her. "The only thing I know," Kris said carefully, "is that Matt had some kind of hunch about the arsons." That should be safe enough. "Matt knew they were detectives and asked them to do some research for him, and —"

"Matt's a fireman with SFFD," Joshua said.

"— yeah, him — he got Frank and Joe diagrams on the burned buildings. I know they found all the buildings had the same owner —"

"The Rathbone Foundation." Arms crossed, Joshua met Carson and Fenton's stares with an impassive one of his own. "I head up AHRD Security's division here, darlin's. Matt approached me about it first, and I suggested Frank and Joe because they were your sons, Fenton. Easy research, that's all I was thinking."

"Something like that," Kris said. "I know they thought the arsons and whatever Nancy was working on were connected somehow, but they didn't tell me any details."

"They were also going to look into other buildings the Foundation owns," Joshua said. "But before you ask, no, I don't have that list."

At that point, Jamie sauntered into the room. "Josh? You might want to come downstairs — oh." She'd pulled up short on seeing Fenton and Carson.

By now, Kris'd had enough. She deserved some payback for what her big brothers had left her to deal with. "Jamie, this is Fenton Hardy — Joe's dad."

" _Really?"_ Jamie said, grinning. "My Evil Minion's Honored Ancestor has finally paid my Evil Overlord-ship a visit?"

"This's Jamie," Kris said to Fenton. "Joe's girlfriend."

"Oh, really?" Fenton said, eyebrow raised.

" _People,"_ Joshua broke in. "What should I be goin' downstairs for, _ché_ '?"

"TV's showing another fire," Jamie said. "That big skyscraper on California."

There was a pause.

"And suddenly, we know for a certain hypothetical fact where our two Sherlock Holmes wanna-be's have gone," Joshua growled, pushing to his feet.

"I thought you'd just given them research," Fenton said, and both Mar and Joshua snorted.

"Fenton, if I sent them off for 'just' an easy day at the beach, sure as God made little green apples, they'd be digging up the whole damn coastline looking for buried bodies," Joshua said.

"Some things never change," Kris said.

"Present company _included,_ darlin'."

But when they got to the commons, Kris pulled up short, staring at the TV. The news camera was panning up to show the skyscraper in flames. _That building…_ the ridges, the bay windows…

Joshua gave her a _look_. "Familiar, I take it?"

Kris nodded.

"Then get down there, _ché_. Fast. Our greenies might need backup, and ol' Harold hasn't come back with the rug-rats."

But Fenton had been watching her. He scowled, openly suspicious. "Out with it, Kris."

She'd forgotten: Fenton was as bad as Mar in smelling out whatever trouble Kris and her big brothers got into. "Um…that…the building, I mean…that's near Embarcadero. Walking distance, I mean." At that point, the captions onscreen flashed the address, and Kris sent up a silent thanks. "555 California…I think that was on their list. Um, the stuff Rathbone owns, I mean."

"It's more than that. That's where San Francisco's resident hermit lives. Rathbone himself." Jamie smiled brightly when Fenton and Carson looked at her. "It's my job as his Evil Overlord to keep current on what my Fluffy Evil Minion is doing."

Fenton and Carson both looked confused — most folks did after encountering Jamie's Evil Overlord persona for the first time — but then, shaking his head, Fenton gave Carson a _look_.

"Then we need to get down there," Carson said.

Kris stepped on Jamie's foot when she opened her mouth. "I can drive," Kris offered. "I know the area and all the shortcuts and everything."

Now Fenton was giving her the _I know a dodge when I hear one, young lady_ stare, but Kris ignored it.

"Good," Carson snapped. "Then you're going with us. Come on."


	26. Demolition Mission

_A/N: Thanks to Xenitha, AlecTowser, Caranath, Leyapearl, & DuffyBarkley for the reviews & comments!  
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Coleman and the old man — that had to be Rathbone — stared at Frank.

The elevator door tried to close; Frank blocked it. God, let it continue to work, just long enough to get back to the floor below. "Once more — _where's Nancy?"_

The old man drew himself up. "There's no 'Nancy' here, young man. _Who are you?"_

"Wrong answer, Rathbone," Frank snarled, and saw the man's eyes narrow — score. He'd guessed right.

"I'll tell you who he is," Coleman said. "He's a young idiot playing hero who's only going to end up dead."

"Then I don't care." Rathbone turned back to the window. "Leave, Coleman. I am an old man. My life is lived. I will stay here with my Greata. For eternity."

The elevator door tried to close again; the smoke was curling up thicker from the cracks to the shaft. Frank had to stay calm. "You'd better answer my question."

"Oh, I've got your answer." Coleman moved closer, but stopped just out of reach. "Your precious _Nancy_ is locked in that little _bedroom_ over there, where Rathbone keeps all his toys after he's done playing."

Frank kept very still. That knowing sneer on Coleman's face — punching him out wouldn't accomplish anything. At the moment, anyway.

"We can waste a lot of time fighting." Coleman studied his fingernails. "You might win, or I might kill you, and by that time, the elevator'll be dead. Either way, the chick dies with the old man, because I'm certainly not going to save her. Or you can step aside and go save your little sex toy, and have some precious time left to use the elevator after I'm done."

 _Heroes only manage to die young._

Rathbone only gazed out the window. The smoke was getting thicker. Letting Coleman just have the elevator wasn't an answer…but a fight? Frank would have to incapacitate or kill the man, and Frank didn't trust Rathbone to stay out of it. Coleman hadn't shown a weapon…

…yet…

…and Frank would still have to free Nancy after that. Odds on the elevator still being operational after all that time? Non-existent to nil.

"There's stairs to the roof over there," Coleman said. "The door's padlocked. But I'm sure a _brave young man_ like you won't have any trouble getting the key from that crazy old stick."

Slowly, Frank stepped aside.

"Almost as smart as your father," Coleman stepped into the elevator, careful not to turn his back on Frank as the elevator door slid shut. "I'll tell him you died bravely."

Rathbone still hadn't moved. Keeping him in sight, Frank edged over to room Coleman had indicated — the door barred and dead-bolted, hinges on his side. Easy enough to deal with, but Frank wasn't about to enter the room with Rathbone still at his back. He pounded on the door first, then shot the deadbolt back and started to work at the bar — some odd lever-mechanism. _"Nancy?"_

Scrabbling sounds, then, "Oh my God — Frank!"

"I know who you are now." Rathbone's voice sounded much closer. "You're Greta's precious movie boy."

Frank rounded, his back to the door, as the bar released and clattered to the ground.

Rathbone had moved from the window. He now stood between Frank and the elevator.

He held a gun.

# # #

Fire roared around him; electric sparks rained overhead as the fluorescent lights flashed and blew. Dizzy, Joe staggered, somehow held to his feet, and shoved more magic into his shields, yanking as much energy up as he could grab. He stumbled out of the office area and for the stairs, choking and coughing through the thick smoke as fire licked along the ceiling. Just as he touched the stairwell door, more sparks flashed overhead and along the walls…

All the lights went out.

Blindly Joe fell onto the stairwell door and into the dark of the concrete stairwell. The smoke was thick even here, but at this point, speed was all that mattered, and _down_ was the only direction Joe cared about. He managed to grab the railing and used it and his crutch to leap-frog down, two and three stairs at a time, stumbling into walls and tripping on debris in the dark.

Two floors, three, four…dear _God,_ and they'd been on the fifty-first floor. He couldn't hear anyone, couldn't see anyone. They'd all fled.

Don't think of that. Keep going. That was all that mattered. Survive one minute at a time. _Keep going._

Eight…nine…eleven…thirteen…fourteen floors, and the stairwell ended in a door out to the thirty-fifth floor. Panting, Joe collapsed against the wall, fighting panic and terror. Who in their right mind built a stairwell that didn't go the whole height of the building?

Freak out _later_. Joe hadn't survived Thatcher twice to die in a stupid skyscraper; he'd never hear the end of it from Frank. Joe's panting broke into a shaky laugh — right. Survive. Keep going. He touched the door: not hot, no smoke under it that he could see.

Not that he had a choice.

Shoving the door open, Joe stumbled out into intense heat — fire was licking up the walls and across the ceiling, debris everywhere, but the floor was still somewhat clear. Grade-school lessons came back: crawling along the floor to avoid smoke, _stop-drop-roll_ …all of which would get him killed here, because the fire was spreading fast and he had to move faster.

He staggered down the hall. There had to be more stairs here. He had to find them. There was no other option.

Office doors hung open, chairs overturned and strewn everywhere, evidence of the haste with which people had fled. A flash of sparks at the corner of his vision caught his attention, followed by a bang, hissing, and a wall catching flame…

…and two children screaming.

Joe dodged into the office, nearly tripping over the debris and scattered magazines. Another door was cracked open, leading to an inner office — a dentist's chair…and huddled in the far corner, Rita and Eme.

" _¡Ángel!"_ Babbling in panicked Spanish, Rita threw herself at Joe.

Rage surged — Downs had left these kids here? Joe fought it down: no time. But he fell to one knee, gathered both children into a quick hug, then struggled back up. "Come on."

"There's fire!" Eme said. "The bells started ringing and everyone kept pushing us out of the way and we didn't know what to do because _Tío_ Harold wasn't here and when we tried to leave, the whole hallway was on fire and…"

The hissing suddenly spiked, loud and clear. Joe looked up — the far wall had caught, flames spreading over the ceiling and the shag rug with thick oily smoke — and froze. The hissing was coming from metal tanks in a corner of the waiting room: two labeled "O2", the others some long name that Joe didn't recognize, a paint-splattered tarp covering a plastic barrel, and a small stack of shiny metal tanks beside it…

Oh God…leaking tanks of _anything…_ if the metal breached…if any of the leaks were that _oxygen…_

Grabbing the kids, Joe shoved them down behind the half-wall and receptionist's desk in the corner, shielding them with his own body as he struggled to remember what he'd done in New Orleans — his amp and mage-Gift had jumbled somehow…and…and…Joe shoved his shield out in a rush of energy, barely over himself and the kids, feeding it with everything he had and beyond —

— as the room _exploded._


	27. End of the Trail

_A/N: Thanks to 3 anonymous "Guests", 1 Caranath, 1 Baaaaarb, 1 DuffyBarkley, 1 Wendylouwho10, 1 AlecTowser and a Leyapearl in a pear treeeee...er, sorry, wrong holiday. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! (Barb: the list of upcoming stories & tales in the works is on my profile. These stories aren't ending anytime soon.)  
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Frank didn't care who or what Rathbone meant. The only thing that mattered was that gun pointed at him. A .38, if Frank was any judge. Enough to take him out of the fight, permanently.

"I didn't think you'd be brave enough to try my personal castle," Rathbone said. "You Hollywood people are such cowards. You never care about anyone save yourselves. My princess, my Greata — she was the precious exception. The only jewel in that stinking pile of garbage that you call a city of _angels_ , and you threw her away without even an attempt at regret."

A .38 would go right through Frank and hit the door. It probably wouldn't go through the door; it'd be slowed from passing through muscle and bone. But Frank didn't want to take even a slim chance of Nancy being in the line of fire.

For that matter, he wasn't wild about being in the line of fire, either, but he couldn't avoid it, at the moment.

His gaze not leaving Rathbone, Frank eased away from the door. "Rathbone, I don't know what you're talking about." Frank kept his voice low, soothing. Whatever fantasy Rathbone had going through his head, it didn't sound good. "The whole building's on fire. That's where all the smoke is coming from. We have to get out of here."

" _I_ have to get out of here, you mean. Which would leave you alone with my precious Greata. Very smooth, young man."

Something odd was going on — pressure was building around Frank's head, as if a band of metal tightened around his temples and forehead, and the air felt thick and greasy. Shaking his head to clear it, Frank kept his gaze on Rathbone, edging around so that Rathbone no longer faced that door.

"I don't care about Greata," Frank said. "I'm here for Nancy. Put the gun down, Mr. Rathbone."

"Yes, you would like me to do that, wouldn't you?" Rathbone was smiling now…but behind him, the bedroom door was easing open.

"I would." The pressure made it hard for Frank to breathe, hard to focus; his head spun. Ignore the door. Focus only on Rathbone. "You didn't become so successful without being reasonable."

"Reasonable?" Rathbone laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "You don't become the owner of an international company by being _reasonable_. Oh, no. _Reasonable_ is the last thing I am. What I have, I keep. _Forever_ —"

Nancy's blow caught Rathbone right in the kidneys, a solid strike with that thick metal bar. Rathbone let out a gasping cry and the gun dropped to the floor as Nancy walloped him again in the same spot.

With a crackling spark and flash, the lights blew out.

The odd pressure had vanished; the sunlight from the windows was more than enough to see by, despite the smokey haze. Frank grabbed up the gun, but Rathbone had collapsed, retching and moaning on the floor.

Trembling, Nancy stood over Rathbone; her face, neck, and arms were deeply bruised, her left foot wrapped in gauze, with more bruising all along its outer edge. But Nancy held that metal door-bar like a baseball bat, ready to beat the living tar out of Rathbone and probably anything else that moved.

"Nancy," Frank said quietly.

She looked up, _saw_ him, and her whole stance went limp — though she kept her grip on the bar. One step, then two…and she collapsed into Frank's arms.

Calm. Frank had to stay calm. No matter how much he wanted to take that metal bar and finish beating Rathbone into a pulp for her, getting out of this building came first. "Come on. We have to get out of here, now."

Her grip white-knuckled around the bar, Nancy nodded. "Sorry."

Frank clicked the gun's safety on, tightened his arms around Nancy briefly, then let go. "Don't be. You're holding together better than I did after New Orleans. Watch him." Frank moved to the elevator, pressed the number code that had worked below.

Nothing. No lights on the keypad, not even the red error light…

…and very faintly, Frank heard yelling from beyond the elevator doors.

"That really was the last trip," Frank breathed.

Nancy had gone to the desk and was pulling out drawers, turning them out without any regard for neatness — a metallic jangle, and she bent, scooped up a ring of keys, and tossed them to Frank. "Door to stairs, there. With the padlock."

Rathbone had made it to his knees, his eyes wide, wild. "Greata…" he croaked, reaching for Nancy, pleading. He struggled to his feet, staggered towards her. "Greata…Princess…you won't leave… _you will not._ "

With a gasp, Nancy backed up, the bar dropping from her hands as she collapsed against the wall, eyes wide and shaking her head.

Frank started to yell — but the odd pressure was back, the sticky, oily air clinging to his skin like spiderwebs — and suddenly he realized what was happening.

… _a selfish, greedy, sticky muck…_

 _Break the concentration:_ the Blades had drilled that into him, no matter the Gift, no matter the magic. Frank wasn't about to bother with _nice,_ and _polite_ had been thrown out the window the moment Nancy had been grabbed on the street. Frank lashed out, catching Rathbone just right and slamming him against one of the armchairs.

The man cried out; the pressure vanished.

… _a selfish, greedy, sticky muck that wants everything inside for itself and you'll be lost until whoever's in there lets you go…_

Temporary solution, unless Frank killed the man. Frank was now in front of Nancy, blocking her as he leveled the .38 on Rathbone's head. But killing Rathbone would cause more problems than it would solve, especially if they made it out of this — though Rathbone didn't need to know that.

Frank had strong natural defenses, according to Mar. Whatever had been shielding Nancy didn't seem to be working, judging from her reaction, and he couldn't get Nancy out if she was crippled by whatever Rathbone was doing.

Time to find out how strong those defenses were.

With his free hand, Frank dug into his pocket and pulled out the quartz crystal — the pre-set — and pushed it into Nancy's hand. His hand gripped hers tightly, the crystal pressed between their palms, before he let go, leaving the pre-set with Nancy.

"Hold onto that," Frank said, his gaze not leaving Rathbone. He didn't know if the pre-set only effected one person or an area, but there was no time to experiment. They had to get out of here, and they were wasting time dealing with this…this… _idiot._

"What…?" Nancy sounded dazed.

Rathbone had fallen to the floor, but struggled back up, holding his side and glaring at Frank. "You…movie boy…get away from her — _get away from my Greata!"_

And then…reality exploded…


	28. Past & Present Danger

_A/N: Thanks to Paulina Ann (who's got excellent HB tales of her own here!), Xenitha (Batman/Robin Tale-Teller Extraordinaire), DuffyBarkley (Published Tale Teller!), Wendylouwho10, AlecTowser (Dr Who's Awesome Chronicler), Caranath (yet another excellent HB tale-teller), Leyapearl (ditto!), junemrose1, and the ever-anonymous Guest for the reviews, comments & favorites!_

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The world was fire.

Something slammed into Joe's back and cracked against the wall, showering him and the children in shattered glass, burning drywall, and plaster. Everything was fire and smoke, cracking, breaking, and crumbling around him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see — focus, he had to focus, had to keep his hold on the shields, had to shove the fire back — energy drained out of him fast and hard, taking everything he had left…

Another explosion — heat seared over his exposed skin, stealing the air from his lungs. Joe couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream.

Two small, dirty hands touched his.

Energy spiked through him, bolstering the shields and shoving back at the fire and heat…barely. Joe managed one breath, then another — God, his chest _hurt._

The noise died; the fiery wind receded. The air was thick with haze and smoke, but Joe forced himself to uncurl from the huddle and fall to the side, gasping for what little air he could get.

" _Joe! Joe!"_ Emelio and Rita tugged at him, trying to get Joe to his feet.

Joe shook his head; even that small motion hurt. "Go," he croaked. "Get out. Stairs…that way…"

The tugging didn't let up. "We can't — there's fire — _Joe!"_

The office door frame was aflame, the ceiling blazing and showering charred tile around them, but fresh air was blowing in — the whole outside wall was gone.

" _Ángel…Joe…please,"_ little Rita whispered.

Somehow Joe struggled to his knees, gathering both children to him as he looked around. His crutch — burnt, crumbling, useless. He could still walk somewhat without it, but…

"I can help," Emelio said. " _Mamá_ says to hurry. She's pointing — I can help, I really can!"

 _Mamá…?_ Right now, Joe couldn't see anything beyond fire and smoke and two small scared faces, hands tugging at him. With a shallow, aching breath that spasmed into coughing, Joe gripped Emelio's shoulder, braced himself to his feet. But Joe's head spun; he couldn't catch his breath. Coughing, choking, he staggered forward, nearly fell, caught his balance against Emelio's shoulder.

"Move," Joe croaked. _"Move."_

He pushed at the children and staggered forward, leaning heavily on Emelio's shoulder for balance. One step, then another, ducking through the door…

The corridor was ablaze.

"That way!" Emelio pulled on Joe's arm. _"Mamá_ says that way!"

 _That way_ was filled with blazing fire and thick smoke — both children were crouched low to the ground, and Joe felt another small spike of energy flow through him from…Emelio?

It didn't matter. Joe took it, shoved it with the last of his own energy, and flung it down the corridor. The flames wavered and died along the near wall, a small cessation. Enough for the kids. Enough to save them. All that mattered.

But, coughing and choking, Emelio and little Rita pulled at Joe again, insisting he get up, and it was plain they weren't moving until Joe did. Somehow Joe made it back to his feet and lurched down that small path through the flames, clutching Emelio's shoulder tight for balance as little Rita kept tugging and pulling, even as Joe stumbled over and over into the charred, smoking wall…

A metal door loomed in front of his face. Joe pushed it open and fell through onto the concrete landing of the stairs, Rita and Emelio right with him.

Hands were on him, hands covered in rough gloves. Muffled voices shouted in alarm, and Joe looked up into a dark goggled helmet topped by an SFFD badge —

Then he passed out.

# # #

Frank wasn't in the penthouse. He wasn't anywhere he recognized. Sun poured in through the windows; sweating from the heat of the summer day, he wiped at his forehead. Fog swirled around him, the haze engulfing him, the air, the sun…

"Get away from my Greata."

A middle-aged man, dark-haired and in a tailored suit, hair combed back and oiled in the style of the '40s — he glared at Frank, just out of reach.

"I won't warn you again, movie-boy. That is _my_ woman. Not yours. You are interfering between a man and his wife."

There was something in Frank's hands, something hard and metallic — he couldn't tell what. The haze thickened, swirling up from the floor to choke him, cutting off his air, encircling his throat…but then, clear and angry —

"I'm not _your_ anything!" A woman's voice behind him…familiar… _loved…_

"But you are," the man said. "You are my dear, dear Greata. And we'll be together, forever…"

Metal. Frank was holding metal. His hands recognized the feel: a gun, cocked and ready to fire. Someone pressed behind him —

— Nancy.

Frank focused on Nancy, on the feel of her against his back, her hand gripping his shoulder…and under the fog — _smoke_ — he could see Rathbone, clutching his side and glaring at Frank.

"A tough nut to crack, eh?" Rathbone rasped. "What's wrong, movie-boy? Not man enough to shoot?"

If only this crackpot knew. But Frank didn't want to fire. He didn't want to kill an unarmed old man. But…

Rathbone smiled thinly. "Let's find out what kind of man you are, then — what kind of _man_ my Greata thinks can replace me…"

The nightmare slammed down, no warning, no mercy.

… _stripped and bound against the cold stone…garden shears pressed gently against his finger…_

Frank gasped, stepping back…then stopped himself. Sweat trickled down his face; his eyes stung. He shook his head, trying to clear the haze, aware of Nancy behind him. He would not run. He would leave her to him. He would _not._

… _the razor blade sliced into his arm, his blood running into a waiting cup._

 _No._ This wasn't real. It was the past. It was over. Shaking his head again, Frank grit his teeth. They had to move, they had to get out — the door, over there…

 _He stood in front of a metal door._

 _Screaming, someone was screaming — his baby brother…Joe…the overwhelming stink of formaldehyde and rotting meat…an echoing, agonized cry choked off into silence…_

 _Frank touched the door knob…no, he had to get help, he had to…he…_

… _ran…_

"Yes, you know all about running, don't you?" someone sneered.

… _the living room stank of formaldehyde…the coffin, there, against the window. Mom, the bright red roses of her dress, a rosary wrapped around her clasped hands._

 _Hands pushed him forward, held him up. Mom's eyes, her mouth. He could see the tiny stitches sealing her lips, trapping her — she was alive, she was just sleeping, and they were — they were —_

 _Screaming, he fought those hands…_

His hands clenched tight around the gun. _He would not run._

But he couldn't move. Paralyzed, Frank stared down the gun barrel, at the old face in front of him…

… _staring at his brother, held to his feet by a madman and barely alive, a jagged saw-blade pressed against his throat and blood pooling on the concrete under his feet…_

He couldn't pull the trigger.

… _Joe, blood-spattered, battered, looking up at the barrel of a gun aimed at his face, the gun Frank held…_

… _black eyes…_

"Wrong answer, Rathbone," Frank whispered, and fired.

Then metal _thwacked_ into flesh in a solid thump, Rathbone cried out…followed by a muffled, thudding _boom_ somewhere below that shook the building.

The nightmare vanished. Rathbone was on the floor, bent over his stomach, gasping; Nancy stood over him, the metal bar in her hands. Shaking, Frank sagged back against the wall.

"Next time, Mr. Manly Hero, take your own advice." Nancy walked over to shove the quartz back into Frank's hand. "Now... _can we get out of here?"_

" _How…?"_

"I can pick a bar back up with the best of them. And I got my necklace out of the trash…I mean…" Nancy looked away. "Never mind. Can your manly self unlock that door, _please?_ Or at least give me the keys back and I can see if my dainty feminine hands can manage it?"

The smoke haze now filled the room, thick and choking — the room was growing hot — fire. Building. Inferno. Right.

With another gasping cry, Rathbone scrabbled to his feet and staggered towards the other rooms.

"You missed," Nancy said clinically.

She sounded a lot calmer than Frank felt at the moment. "He wasn't worth the bullet," Frank said.

Making sure the safety was on, Frank shoved the gun through his belt, then fumbled with the keys and the padlock until one finally clicked and the padlock opened: stairs, going up to a metal door…

…which was welded shut.

Jaw clenched, Frank held back all the words he wanted to spit. Losing his cool would not help. They both had to stay calm. They had to figure something out, _anything_.

"God, the man's paranoid," Nancy breathed.

"Any other stairs? _Anywhere?"_

"I couldn't exactly search!"

"Sorry." Frank rested his head against the metal door. _Think._ He pulled the gun back out. "C'mon. We search _now."_

Their search turned up nothing — no stairs, no other exits, not even safety ladders. The moment they got back into the main room, Frank froze, as Nancy gasped —

Flames were flaring up along the bottom edges of the wall, and the floor was smoking visibly and turning dark.

"We're trapped," Nancy breathed; she'd grabbed cloth napkins and soaked them in bottled water from the fridge. She'd tied one over her mouth and nose and had handed the other to Frank. It helped, some. But now Nancy held up a quartz pendant. Frank recognized it: the necklace she'd been wearing when she was grabbed. "These things — don't suppose they block fire?"

"Doubt it." Breaking the windows — that'd just bring the fire up faster, and they didn't have any means to climb down fifty-two floors of burning building. Stairs welded shut. No exits…the firefighters probably weren't even aware anyone was up here…

No…wait…there _was_ something!

Frank and Nancy had backed up against the elevator. Now Frank looked at it — only way, only chance — and then started working his hands into the crack of the doors, struggling to force them open. "Get something that we can use to pry these open!"

"Like this?" Nancy said dryly, and wedged the door bar into the crack. Together they pried, pulled, and prayed. "The shaft'll act like a chimney, you know that."

There. Just a slight give. Just a bit more… "But if there's a ladder…for maintenance crews…"

The doors released; he and Nancy pushed them back. Frank breathed a frustrated sigh: no ladder. Was _anything_ about this penthouse designed right?

"Strike two," Nancy said, looking up the elevator shaft…then she looked down.

The elevator car hadn't made it to the next floor. Faint cries for help, over the sound of roaring flames below, metal cracking and breaking…and a very distinctive smell, melting plastic, charred wood, and…and…

"Good God," Nancy whispered.

Frank had encountered too much horror in New Orleans…but right now, he swallowed, and swallowed again, and forced his attention back to the elevator shaft and the metal cables. Ridges and metal bits lined the walls, just enough for foot holds, but the cable was oily, the shaft smoke-filled. Frank held his hand out to test the heat — hot, but not boiling. The stuck elevator was probably blocking some of the heat and flames. "Any good at climbing?"

Nancy stared at him, a stare that transferred to the cables. She reached out, ran two fingers along the cable, then rubbed them with her thumb, her fingers black and shiny with oil.

"That's what I like about you, Hardy. Your charming ability to come up with an idiotic idea that's so stupidly insane, yet so logically inescapable." Nancy glanced towards the walls and smoking floor. "Not like we have a choice."

"I knew you'd see it my way."

She gave him a _look._ "Yeah. Hold that heroic manly thought a moment, all right?" With another glance at the floor, Nancy ran towards the back rooms, came back with dish towels and…a pair of boots.

Nancy handed the towels to Frank, then quickly laced the boots on. "I'm not doing _that_ in bare feet, thank you. Wrap those around your hands."

"And that's what I love about you, Drew," Frank said softly. "Your ability to take my insane plan and make it feasibly survivable."

"You're going to explain." Her face pale, Nancy was now staring up the elevator shaft. "You're going to explain every last bit of all this — whatever the hell Rathbone was doing, what you and Joe are doing in that place, how you found me, _everything._ Even if I have to come back from the dead and haunt you for the next two centuries."

Now Frank smiled. "Deal. Ladies first."

Wrapping the towels tightly around her hands and tying the bar into the ribbon-belt of her dress, Nancy reached for the cables…then paused. "You saw _Star Wars?"_

Behind Frank, fire flared across the floor and crawled up the walls; small flames licked along the wooded parquet. "This isn't the time for small talk."

Then Nancy leaned in and kissed him.

For a sweet, too-short moment, her body was warm and soft against his, and Frank wanted…oh _God_ , he wanted…

All too soon, Nancy pulled away. "For luck."

Then she grabbed the cables and swung out over the smoking, fiery pit.


	29. The Broken Blade

_A/N: thanks to DuffyBarkley, Caranath, SunshineInTheGraySky, AlecTowser, Barb, Xenitha, Wendylouwho10, & Marmie for the reviews, comments & follows! By the way, this & the next chapter are the FanFictionNet-only Author's Cuts, dedicated to Caranath & Wendylouwho10 for reasons that should be obvious. ;)  
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Exhausted, barely conscious, Joe lay on the grass, an oxygen mask across his face. His lungs hurt with every breath; his mouth tasted of smoke and ash. The park across Kearney Street had been turned into a makeshift first-aid/emergency gathering point for the firefighters, paramedics, police, and panicking, milling, rubber-necking people — some searching desperately for friends and family, most watching the fire. The police tried to keep everyone back who didn't have any official reason to be there, but they weren't succeeding.

Plainly struggling to be reasonable, the paramedic — a square-faced blond man with a nameplate reading "DeSoto" — squatted next to Joe. "Look, buddy…"

"I told you," Joe rasped, pulling the oxygen mask away from his face momentarily, "I'm not going anywhere." The paramedic opened his mouth, but Joe only raised his voice. "I'm refusing the hospital and I'm refusing the ambulance, and I'm refusing _everything_ until you find these kids' uncle and I find out my brother's okay!"

Rolling his eyes, the paramedic turned to another stricken person to help load them into an ambulance. Joe didn't care. Rita and Emelio huddled against him, watching everything and everyone with wide, scared eyes…and especially the burning building. Laying back down, Joe closed his eyes, not wanting to see that huge, gaping gash, where he and the children had been. The explosion had blown out the windows and a huge chunk of the outer walls — if he'd been putting out enough energy for all three of them to survive _that_ , well, that explained why he felt like used gravel.

Bad enough that Harold Downs had left the kids alone in that dentist office — Joe did _not_ want to tell the kids that their other _ángel,_ his brother, was likely still in that building.

" _¡Tío!"_ Suddenly Emelio scrambled to his feet and waved his arms. _"¡Tío!"_

Joe really didn't want to face Harold Downs while lying down. He struggled to his elbows just in time to see Downs grab both Emelio and Rita into a tight, shaking hug.

The man was crying.

Joe opened his mouth, then shut it and looked away.

"Why didn't you two — I've been looking all over for you!" Downs was saying, but he didn't sound angry: only the remnants of fear and panic. "Where _were_ you?"

It got a flurry of English and Spanish, both children trying to explain. "You told us to stay there!" Emelio protested. "And those bells started ringing and no one told us what it meant and everyone kept shoving us and then we saw the fire and we couldn't get out —"

" _¡El ángel nos salvó!"_ Rita said, followed by a gabble of Spanish and English…but Downs had finally noticed Joe was there.

Downs didn't say anything. He only looked at Joe for a long moment as Rita and Emelio went on. That gaze took in the oxygen mask, the soot, the burns, the scorched clothing.

Joe braced himself…but the next words out of Downs's mouth weren't what Joe expected at all.

"Your brother?"

Joe glanced at the building. "He went after Rathbone. We — the magic connected Nancy up there, in the penthouse. Frank got ahead of me, and I got shoved behind a lot of panicking people." A coughing fit racked him; he was having a hard time catching his breath, even with the oxygen. His chest and throat _hurt._

"No need to explain." Downs turned to the kids, gathered them back up and shook them gently to emphasize his words. "You two, _stay here_. You stay with Ba…with Joe and don't leave him. Understand?"

"Where are you going?" Joe rasped, and then anger, rage, fear, everything of the last hour took over. "And where were _you?_ You left them up there —"

"Bait…" But then Downs took a deep breath, then another. "I'll look for your brother. I can get through this crowd a lot faster than you can." Another deep breath. "Yes, it's my fault. I went to go grab coffee and all hell broke loose. Elevators went dead before I could get back — and the stairs —"

"Sorry," Joe said, looking down.

To his total shock, Downs gripped his shoulder. "Stow it. You just sit there with that comfy mask over your face and by all that's holy, _listen_ to the paramedics. And you'd better keep an eye on these two munchkins or —"

A sharp whistle cut him off; both Downs and Joe looked around. Kris was jogging towards them, waving when she saw them watching.

"Should I ask?" Downs said.

"Yeah, it's worse." Kris squatted by Joe as she accepted desperate hugs from Emelio and Rita. "This's all over the news, your dad and Carson saw it, and I was telling them that you and Frank cut out on us when all that came on the news and they insisted —"

"They're here, too," Joe breathed, slumping back. Well, he'd said it: _let me really tempt fate, while we're at it — can this day get any worse?_

"They're arguing with Hammond at the moment, big brother," Kris said. " _He's_ down here. I told your dad that I'd look for you, since I could get through the crowd better than they could. You look like total hell, by the way." Then Kris looked at Rita, Emelio, Downs… "Oh…gods. Frank?"

Joe couldn't look at her.

"Can it, Hawk," Downs said. "Joe here's watching the kids. _You_ are going to help me search for the mundane _and_ see if we can catch our rogue fire-starter. He has to be here watching the fun — don't look at me like that, little girl, you know exactly what I mean."

Coughing, Joe struggled back upright. " _She._ The pyro — the arsonist — I caught her in the act — she —"

"Bait, _shut up,_ " Downs ordered. "Way you sound, the medics should've dragged your ass to the ER already. Hawk?"

"Drop your shields a bit, big brother," Kris whispered, with a nervous glance at the paramedic. "So I can read you."

Joe trusted her, but wasn't comfortable yet at the thought that someone could just _do_ that to his mind. But…no choice. Nodding, he let his shields go, and closed his eyes as Kris clasped his shoulder. Vertigo spun him and his head swam as images flickered in his mind…with the distinct impression of two low voices murmuring inside his skull.

"Heads up," Downs said quietly. "Charlie incoming, twelve o'clock. I'm gone. Kids, _stay here."_

 _Charlie…?_ Joe tried to look, but Kris pushed him right back down.

"Let Rita heal you a bit, big brother." Kris pulled little Rita over and whispered in fast Spanish. Biting her lip, Rita nodded, then settled in the grass, cuddled against Joe's side as she yawned.

"Rita's a _healer?"_ Joe started, but Kris elbowed him.

"The charlie's right behind you. Have fun."

Joe tried to twist around…but whoever it was now stood over him, and Joe sagged again. Dad…and Carson.

Before Joe could say anything, Dad knelt and pulled him into a tight, shaking, relieved hug. "Frank?"

Joe glanced up at the building. Dad's breath hissed in; the hug tightened.

"Why are you here?" Carson glared down. "You two know something that you should be telling the FBI?"

Joe was exhausted, drained, hurting all over, ready to collapse, and worried sick over Frank, and this…this… _idiot…_ "We know exactly what we told the cops," Joe snapped, then collapsed into another coughing fit. It was several long minutes before he could speak again. "We knew Nancy's stuff connected to the arsons, and the arsons were all linked to the Rathbone Foundation somehow."

"And this is the Rathbone Building," Dad said.

Breathing deeply through the oxygen mask, Joe nodded. "We got up there — Dad, Frank recognized someone there. Someone he saw out front of Nancy's hotel — someone named Coleman…"

" _Coleman?"_ Carson burst out. "You didn't tell us this before!"

"We didn't _know_ before! The secretary up there used the name — that's how we found out."

"Coleman?" Dad said mildly to Carson.

"Rathbone's head lawyer," Carson said.

Oh…just wonderful. "And Frank got ahead of me." The soreness in his chest was easing; Joe glanced down. Little Rita was still curled up against his side; her eyes were closed, one small hand laid against his chest. "The alarms went off and I got stuck behind people —"

"It's okay." Dad hadn't let go of the hug.

Noise overhead caught their attention: a helicopter headed for the roof of the Rathbone Building. But Joe noticed something else — slipping through the crowd, her gaze on the burning building…the woman in the green sweater.

The arsonist.


	30. Captive Witness

_A/N: The Second FanFictionNet Special "Emergency!" Author's Chapter - and sorry, no, I'm not moving Rampart to San Francisco. :P Thanks to Caranath, Barb, Leyapearl, DuffyBarkley, & AlecTowser for the comments & reviews!  
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There were a lot of things Nancy had wanted to do in San Francisco — climbing a fiery, smoke-hazed elevator shaft to escape a second-rate _Towering Inferno_ was not one of them. Second-rate, not first: they weren't caught in a failing elevator outside the building, she didn't have to choose between killing off Bobby Brady and a number of other brainless actors, and there definitely wasn't a director to shout "Cut!" if her hair got messed up.

No, no director, just a couple-hundred-foot drop to flame-broiled death below if she slipped. That was incentive enough for several years worth of Oscars, Emmys, and Olympic Golds.

Focus. She had to focus. Grip the oily cable, grit teeth against the painful scrape of metal against the rawness of her palms, even through the dishtowel. Set feet against the metal spars and broken concrete of the shaft walls for traction and balance, haul self up one slow, agonizing bit at a time. Ignore the too-large boots that slipped around her feet and twisted at the wrong moments. Ignore the sweat dripping into her eyes, the itch right between her shoulder blades, the blood dripping from her arm where it had scraped against the cable.

Ignore the other blood. Ignore the other pain. Ignore the memory of old fingers around her neck and coffee-scented breath in her face.

Pray you don't slip and kick Frank below you in the face, or, worse, miss your grip and send the both of you plummeting to that fiery barbecue pit below.

No breath for witty conversation. No energy for any chatter beyond " _Keep going_ ", _"Just a little further,"_ and _"Watch out._ " The ledge was just up there. Not far at all.

Inch by agonizing inch, hand over raw bleeding hand, Nancy crawled up the cable. Finally, finally, she grabbed the metal guide-rails and pulled, nearly falling onto the thin ledge of the doorway. Every muscle in her body trembled from sudden relief, exhaustion, and overuse, but she held to her feet, watching as Frank inched up and helping him to grip the same metal and make it over onto the ledge.

Please, God, let this be the roof.

Nancy's hands trembled so hard from exhaustion that she couldn't manage the knots around the metal bar; Frank pulled a jack-knife and cut it free from the satin ribbons, his hands trembling as badly as hers were. He forced it into the door gap, then leaned against the bar until the doors popped open and slid back…then they both stumbled out into a small antechamber. That door was blessedly, mercifully _unlocked —_ and from there, into sunlight and cold wind, thick with choking black smoke and chemical fumes…

…the _whomp-whomp-whomp_ of a helicopter overhead…

"Convenient," Frank murmured.

"Let me guess," Nancy covered her mouth and nose with what remained of the dish towel and watched as the chopper circled; it was close enough that she saw the pilot wave to indicate he'd spotted them, "your little psychic cult summoned it."

Frank looked at her; Nancy looked away. She was exhausted and ready to collapse. Controls on mouth non-existent at the moment.

"If they did," Frank said, coughing and using his jacket to cover his own mouth, "they're a lot better than me or Joe know about."

No heat behind that. He sounded as exhausted as she was. Adrenaline was quickly running out. It was almost over. She was almost safe, with a firefighters' chopper landing and Frank right here, his arm around her, supporting her as they stumbled a safe distance away from the chopper.

Firefighters disembarked; the first one off waved them over. Leaning against Frank, Nancy let him support her as they both limped over on legs that shook with weariness. But then one of the firefighters pulled his safety shield up. "Frank? What are you doing here — Stoker, Marco, go on, I'll handle these two."

Frank choked out a breathless laugh. "Matt. Just…investigating."

The man shook his head, but then he looked Nancy over. "This her? Okay." He leaned into the chopper. "Johnny? A couple walking wounded out here. Get them in with oxygen — Frank, anyone else up here?"

"Weldon Rathbone," Frank said. "He won't leave, Matt."

"The door to the stairs is welded shut," Nancy said. "We had to use the elevator. The hard way."

"It won't be welded for long,"Matt said. "He's leaving, like it or not."

"There's another man, Coleman," Nancy said. "He tried to take the elevator. It got stuck."

Matt looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "Wonderful."

"Matt…" Frank gripped Matt's arm as the man turned away. "Rathbone. He's a 'path. A bad one. And insane."

Matt's face hardened. "Gotcha. Go on, get in the chopper, both of you."

The paramedic helped them up, then ensconced them in the back of the chopper and gave them water and oxygen as he took their vitals. There was a muffled _boom,_ followed by metallic chunks and shouts _._

"'Path'?" Nancy said.

Gulping air, Frank had sagged back against the chopper wall. But he cracked his eyes open to look at her. "Telepath," Frank said quietly, with a glance at the paramedic, who was talking on the biophone. "Empath. Someone who can use all that."

Nancy digested that a moment. "Looks like they are better than you and Joe know about."

"Not really. Matt just lives at the Center. He's stationed with the downtown SFFD."

"You live in that hippy place, too, bud?" The paramedic - his nameplate read "Gage" - squirmed back over to wrap a blood-pressure cuff around Nancy's arm, checking her bruises; Nancy blushed, just a little - the guy was good-looking, tall and dark-haired. "Man, knowing what Matt pays for rent out there, we've been after him to get us a place, too." Gage kept up the flow of calm, everyday chat, even as he frowned over Nancy. "We're going to set you two up with IVs and you're both going to the ER as soon as we land."

"Life-flight?" Frank said.

Gage snorted. "Not unless that last tax levy passed and they rebuilt General when we weren't looking. No, ambulances are below. We'll carry you over in style, I promise."

Nancy said nothing, only flinched as the IV went in. There was commotion outside and two firefighters appeared, hauling an unconscious Rathbone between them.

"Let General know they might need to trank this one, Johnny," one of the firefighters, Matt, called in. "He was pretty delirious and fighting us." Matt looked over at Frank and gave him a brief nod.

Rathbone came to as they were loading him onto a stretcher; he thrashed, protesting the men holding him down as Gage got the IV in and strapped an oxygen mask to Rathbone's face. But then Rathbone saw Nancy huddled next to Frank.

Rathbone stopped fighting.

Nancy shivered. Frank was between her and that man. There were firefighters all around them. The man couldn't try anything, not here, not in public.

Frank was talking quietly with the paramedic. Nancy caught the words "kidnapping" and "assaulted", and saw Frank hand the paramedic the gun.

"You're here, my dear Greata," Rathbone said. "You'll be safe. That movie-boy won't be able to touch you."

Nancy felt that odd pressure again, the start of the headache. Her hand slipped to where she'd tied the crystal pendant, clutched it, felt the pressure ease, just a touch. "You won't touch me, either."

"None of that, now," Matt said sharply to Rathbone. "Or I'll have Johnny there trank you so hard, you won't wake up for another century."

Frank slipped his hand into Nancy's; she felt the smooth crystal between their palms, and her headache disappeared. "He won't touch you again," Frank said to her. "I promise."

Smiling, Rathbone eased back. "We'll see about that. We'll see."

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Joe spotted the arsonist, her slight frame, ugly green sweater, and ridiculous over-sized purse all making her stand out. How could anyone _not_ see her?

"I'll go look for Frank," Kris said to Dad.

"Tag…wait…" Joe choked it out; another coughing fit grabbed control of his lungs.

"You need to be in the ER," Dad said.

Nearby, the blond paramedic looked up from the person he was working on. "Mister, if you can convince him, I'll induct you as an honorary paramedic myself."

"He's my son," Dad said dryly. "I'm used to it."

But Joe grabbed Kris's arm. "Tag…that woman…" He couldn't say it out loud, not with Dad and Carson right there. Joe wasn't a telepath, but Kris was and she claimed she couldn't block him or Frank out…please, God, let this work. Breathing out, Joe tried to focus his thoughts, staring into Kris's face.

 _That woman — she's the pyro!_

God, even _thinking_ hurt right now…

Kris's gaze settled on the woman. "Easy, big brother," Kris said softly, with a glance at Dad and Carson. "Just do what the nice paramedic tells you."

Joe scowled. _I'll get you for this._ "Tag…"

"Listen to her, son." Dad's smile was tight with worry and laced with continued glances towards the fire; Carson only stared up at the building. "Your little tagalong has more sense than you do right now."

"He's supposed to be an angel," Emelio said, from his spot next to Rita. "Angels don't need hospitals."

Dad raised an eyebrow at Joe. "Angel?"

"I see her, big brother," Kris said, very, very softly. "Let me hook in so I can get Harold."

"What'd you say?" Dad said to her.

Kris reddened. "Um…nothing. Just…um…thinking."

He and Frank had to teach her to lie better. Closing his eyes, Joe nodded and relaxed back. "It's a long story, Dad."

"My baby boy, being reasonable," Dad said. "The world's going to end."

"I'm not leaving until I know Frank's safe," Joe said. Something had touched him, a soft, swift, spider-web that coiled through him and _connected_.

"Look, buddy…" the paramedic started.

"He's right," Dad said to the paramedic. "Frank's my oldest. You try to take Joe in now, he'll fight you every step of the way."

"Thanks a lot," Joe muttered. Downs was across the park, scanning the crowd, but he turned, spotted Kris, and nodded.

Kris pushed to her feet. "I'll be right back. And don't do _anything_ , big brother. You're near collapse."

Joe watched as Kris threaded through the people and worked her way behind the woman. Downs moved into the woman's line of sight; she startled, then turned as if to run…only to bump into Kris.

Kris gripped the woman's shoulder as Downs closed the distance, bracketing the woman between them. Joe couldn't hear what they said…but suddenly the woman drew herself up.

"You don't know what that bastard did!" The words rang loud and clear. "How dare you. _How dare you!"_

Shaking her head, Kris was still talking, low and soft, Downs's rumble interspersed throughout.

" _No,"_ the woman said, and then energy surged, ripping up from the ground to swirl around her, hot and raging —

No time. Trembling, Joe grabbed for any energy he could, to clamp a shield around Kris before the arsonist struck. But the magic rippled away from him and evaporated — his mind felt muddy, numb, sluggish from exhaustion —

 _:Shut it down, Bait.:_ Downs's mind-voice rang in Joe's head. _:Don't even think of trying it.:_

"Joe…" Dad gripped Joe's shoulders. "What's wrong?"

Gasping, Joe shook his head, trying to catch his breath, then another coughing fit ripped through his lungs. Exhaustion was overwhelming him; he wasn't sure he could stay awake much longer.

"That chopper's coming down." Carson was still watching the building. "Looks like they're going to land here."

"They're using the circle over there," the paramedic said.

Something had happened; Joe hadn't seen what. The raging, ripping energy had vanished; the woman's shoulders sagged, her head bowed. Downs had his arm around her shoulders and was guiding her towards where Joe and the children were.

"This is Gina Delquist," Downs said quietly.

"Delquist?" Joe said, startled. "You mean…like…"

The woman's head came up. "My mother was Greata Delquist."

Joe stared at her. The doll…what Jamie had said, everything…and the doll in the middle of the flames here…

Kris caught his gaze…and nodded.

" _Nancy!"_ Carson broke into a run towards the helicopter.

Joe twisted around. Frank was helping Nancy from the chopper, then to limp towards the waiting paramedics and stretchers — only to be intercepted by Carson, who grabbed Nancy into a tight, shaking hug.

Frank's gaze searched the crowd, even as the paramedics helped him towards a stretcher. Dad had followed Carson; Frank spotted him just as Dad reached him and grabbed Frank into his own relieved hug. Dad pointed towards where Joe lay, and Frank's gaze met Joe's for an instant.

Frank nodded, then let the paramedics help him onto the waiting stretcher.

"You and your brother seem to have a severe case of playing hero," Downs rumbled. "Most find it fatal." He looked at Rita and Emelio, huddled near Joe. "Not that I'm complaining."

Other paramedics were lifting a stretcher from the chopper: an elderly gray-haired man was strapped to it.

"Who's that?" Kris said.

"Weldon Rathbone…" Gina Delquist said bitterly.

"…my mother's murderer."


	31. Twisted Claw

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews & comments: Xenitha, AlecTowser, DuffyBarkley, Barb, MoonlightGypsy, Leyapearl, Wendylouwho10, Caranath, & Rangerlyn! Caranath: Squad 51's up on a summer "exchange" program & I plead the Fifth on the details. :P  
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Never in his life had Frank felt so angry and so helpless to do anything.

Hospital ERs: he hated them, both sides of the equation, patient and worried relative waiting for the bad news. Oxygen — thank God, he hadn't needed intubation, and he'd refused the IV — along with antiseptics and careful scrubbing of his hands for burns and metal splinters from the elevator cable, followed by shiny gel-ointment and bandages. They'd run as many tests as they could inflict on him, and now it was a long, boring wait while they decided whether or not to stress the medical insurance to breaking point.

Well, Frank hadn't been told to stay put. He could walk around, at least.

He got up from the bed, taking care to make sure his hospital gown was closed in back. Joe was across the ward, with Dad splitting his time between the brothers — though Frank had overheard the loud argument earlier, as the hospital had wanted to admit Joe and Joe flat-out wasn't having it.

"Joe?" Frank said, stopping outside the curtain partition.

"Yeah. _Please._ Before I kill someone."

Frank cracked open the curtain to make certain it was safe — neither Dad nor Carson were in sight — then slipped in.

"They put Nancy next door." Joe nodded to his left before breaking into a coughing fit. Even through the oxygen mask, his voice sounded raspier than usual, his face reddened as if sunburned, his hair frizzy and singed. Yawning, he rubbed at his eyes. "She's in x-ray at the moment. And Carson and Dad are all over Hammond about the kidnapping." Joe yawned again. "At least Carson's not blaming us anymore. I heard that before they dragged Hammond away."

Frank sat on the end of the bed. "Rita and Eme?"

"Already checked in upstairs." Another yawn, then Joe grinned. "You got lucky. They almost talked Harold into bringing the kittens here to keep you company. You owe that cute redhead nurse some major pizza for veto'ing the idea."

"You owe _me_ pizza, you mean." Kris peeked around the curtain, slipped in at Joe's nod. She looked tired and sad.

"Where's…?" Joe's voice trailed off.

Kris nodded towards the ward. "We're going to take her back to Center and put her through the third degree."

"Take her _back?_ She set those fires — she _killed —"_

"Someone clue me in?" Frank said.

"That blonde woman, the one playing Rumpelstiltskin in the elevator." Joe broke into coughing again, as he tried to sit up. "She's the pyro. I caught her red-handed — Tag, she nearly _killed_ me!"

Kris had been shaking her head. "Do you remember Stacey Blaine?"

"That's not the same. Stacey didn't —"

"She _did._ I made a huge mistake back then, big brother. Don't make the same one."

"So you're just letting a pyro who's killed seven people just sit out there without anyone watching her?!"

"She's not going anywhere. Harold made sure of that."

Frank shuddered. He _knew_ what Kris meant. After Rathbone, he'd never forget. "If they're doing that, Joe, then there's more to the story than we know at this point. Just like Stacey."

"Exactly, big brother," Kris sighed. "Exactly."

"And Rathbone?"

Kris said nothing.

Frank'd had a rough few hours. He wasn't tracking too well. But he had to stay calm. "Tag, if you try to claim _he's_ like Stacey —"

"We don't know." Kris looked away. "We're waiting for Nancy to get back. We need to hear the whole story."

"Dad and Carson are here," Frank said. "And Hammond."

"We know. Hopefully they'll keep arguing long enough for us to work this out."

That didn't make sense. "But why not call in —"

"No, big brother." Kris met both their gazes. "Josh'll be told, and Eli. That's it. No one else in the Center is involved in this. _Period."_

Frank and Joe exchanged a look. What the Blades did: they not only protected people from rogue Gifted and things that went bump in the night, they also protected the Gifted…and that protection extended to all levels.

"Understood," Frank said.

"Hawk?" Downs said, outside the curtain.

"Here."

Downs poked his head in, looked both Joe and Frank over, then turned, crooked his finger at someone outside.

The blonde woman from the elevator shuffled in, clutching her handbag like a shield.

"Sit there." Downs nodded at an empty chair. "You will stay quiet and just listen. Understood?"

The woman nodded and sat, her head down, staring at her handbag.

"Gina Delquist," Downs said to Frank. "Rathbone's daughter."

Uneasy, Frank shifted. The woman was as slight and small as their little tagalong. She'd obeyed without protest. She was being controlled, just as Rathbone tried to do to him, just as that SOB had done to Nancy… "Let her go," Frank said.

"Frank, that's the pyro," Joe said, glaring at the woman.

"I don't care. _They're controlling her!"_

"Big brother," Kris broke in.

"Look, Hardy, if anyone else caught her, they'd turn her in to the police," Downs said, over top of Kris. "You really want a rogue pyro loose in the prison system?"

"I'm not a rogue," Gina said.

"Oh, right," Joe rasped. "People were _killed._ Me and a couple kids nearly _died_ —"

" _Hardy,"_ Downs cut him off, "not here. Save it for Center."

Noise outside the curtains alerted them: wheels squeaking, cloth and plastic rustling, Nancy's quiet murmur, then a nurse saying in a too-hearty voice, "You just rest here for a bit, we'll let you know once the doctor reviews the x-rays."

"Harold," Kris said quietly; she'd leaned out to look. "I think that old guy's right across from us."

"Rathbone?" Frank said — and Downs pushed him right back down.

"Not yet, idiot," Downs said. "Keep your pants on."

Kris peeked through the curtain separating Nancy and Joe's partitions. "Hey…um…is it okay if I pull this back? Frank's over here. And Harold — um…you haven't met him yet. And me and Joe. We need to talk with you."

Frank shook Downs's grip off to push past Kris, only to stop at the edge of the curtain. Looking lost, Nancy sat in the bed, huddled around her knees with the sheets pulled up.

"Okay if I come in?" Frank said.

Not looking at him, Nancy nodded, scooting over to make room for Frank to sit on the bed. The moment Frank eased down, Nancy grabbed him, the desperate, stressed-to-breaking-point grip of someone just wanting it all to be over. Frank returned the embrace, rocked her.

After long moments, Nancy took a deep breath. _"Who_ needs to talk? And _why?_ " She stared at Kris. "And why _you?"_

Kris only looked at Frank.

Frank had planned on telling Nancy anyway, but here, with Downs listening in? "Tag…" Frank started.

"It's your choice, big brother. Your choice, your trust."

Frank thought that through, weighing everything: Carson, Dad…Hammond. Everything Nancy and Frank and Joe had been through together…past, present…potential future…

Nancy still leaned against him, her hands in his. Waiting.

That much trust, even after… Frank took a deep breath. "Nan…if it's okay…let Tag pull the curtain back. Joe needs to be in on this, too."

After a long moment, Nancy nodded. Kris pulled the curtain back.

Downs pushed away from the wall to stand at the end of Nancy's bed, looked her over. "Did Rathbone do that to your foot?"

Nancy blinked. "Uh…no. I rammed it into a bedpost. Broken toes."

Kris winced, but Downs nodded. "I'm going to go check on my two munchkins while Frank's filling her in," Downs said to Kris. "Make sure you keep watch, in case —"

"I thought I heard your lovely voice over here, Princess."

Everyone startled; Nancy gasped as the corner of the curtains was pulled back. Smiling, Rathbone stood there in a hospital gown, his gaze fixed on Nancy.

"You've accumulated a lot of friends, I see, Greata. But we won't be too long, here. We can return to our castle —"

"I'm not going _anywhere_ with you," Nancy snarled; her grip on Frank's hands was white-knuckled. "The police will see to that."

"The police will do as they're told. They won't interfere between a man and his wife." Rathbone's gaze sharpened. "You should be over here, with your dear husband, my princess."

Noise, and sudden movement. Frank glanced: Downs was scowling — and had a tight grip on Kris's shoulder.

" _I'm not your wife,"_ Nancy said. "Kidnapping. Assault. _Rape._ They'll listen. The FBI's already —"

" _Rape?"_ Rathbone laughed. "Such drama, Princess. You were no virgin. You won't want all that dragged out in public court by common lawyers, for everyone to see. And they will. _I_ will. A man bringing his errant wife home, a small domestic dispute…no, the police won't interfere."

Rathbone started forward…

Frank was off the bed; Rathbone halted. "Lay a hand on her," Frank snarled, "and you'll find out how much I'll interfere."

"I can protect myself, you know," Nancy said…but her voice shook.

"And you've got two broken toes and an IV," Frank said, not taking his gaze from Rathbone. The odd pressure was back, squeezing right behind his eyes; he grit his teeth against it. The pre-set was back with his clothes…

"You movie people." Rathbone hadn't stopped smiling. "Always so dramatic. Move away, boy. You cannot stop me from taking my rights."

The pressure increased, a red, oily haze that filmed over Frank's sight —

"Want the details, movie-boy? My princess loved every minute of it. She begged for it, every last bit…"

Somewhere through the haze, Nancy whimpered…and Frank lunged, intending to take Rathbone out with one blow.

 _:Back down, Blade:_ Downs's voice rang in Frank's head, freezing him in place —

— followed by Rathbone's strangled gasp; he clutched at the curtains for balance, stumbling back.

The pressure evaporated. Their stances open challenge, Kris and Downs had moved between Rathbone and Nancy — and Joe stood just behind Kris, his hands gripping her and Downs's shoulders.

Past Rathbone, near the nurses' station, Carson, Dad, and Hammond stood, all staring at Rathbone.

"Don't do that again, Rathbone," Downs growled. "You'll get it shoved right back in your face."

But Rathbone only smiled. "I don't need to." That smile turned to Nancy. "You will never be able to hide again, my princess. I will always find you, and we will always be together. Forever."

He shuffled towards where Hammond stood with Dad and Carson. "Why, Harry Hammond," Rathbone said genially. "It's been too long. How is Judge Webster nowadays? And Admiral Turner?"

Expressionless, save only a glance towards Nancy, Hammond said nothing.

"Webster," Joe said in an undertone; he was white-faced, clenching Kris's shoulder. "That's the FBI director."

"And Turner's the CIA," Downs said, just as quietly.

Nancy swallowed, and swallowed again; her words whispered out. "Rathbone's company fills high-level government contracts."

Rathbone was smiling at Nancy again. "We'll talk later, my dear princess. I promise you." He tottered back across the ward, where a nurse waiting near his partition started scolding him in the fake-happy tones of a nanny to a cranky toddler.

Carson and Dad dragged Hammond a short distance away — from their stances, the whispered conversation was angry and urgent.

Gulping back sobs, Nancy collapsed forward, hugging one of the pillows tight. "Oh God…if he's bought into the courts…I've seen what happens when they…when they try…try rape cases…" Nancy's hands clenched. "He'll buy whoever he needs — he'll follow me —"

"He won't." Hospital or not, Frank wanted to go over there and take care of Rathbone once and for all, no matter the consequences. "It won't happen, Nancy, I swear."

"I don't need to hear anymore," Kris said to Downs, from clenched teeth. "You?"

"Same," Downs said.

Her face tear-streaked, Nancy looked from Frank to Downs to Kris and back. But Downs turned to Joe and lowered his voice even more.

"Explanations have to wait. Make some excuse and you two join us, over where Frank's supposed to be." Downs turned to Gina. "You will stay here. Say nothing. _Do_ nothing. Understood?"

Eyes blazing, Gina looked up…but, finally, she looked away and nodded.

"Hawk?" Downs said.

"Coming." Kris breathed out a heavy sigh, then helped Joe back to his bed. "I really didn't want you guys having to do this so soon."

"Tag?" Joe said.

For a long moment, head bowed, Kris said nothing, then raised her head. "You have _my_ word, Nancy… _that son of a bitch won't touch you again_."

Nancy stared.

"Frank'll explain later. He really will. But this has to be handled now." Then Kris slipped past the curtains before either Frank or Joe could ask what she meant.

Frank looked at his brother; Joe looked as confused as he felt. But then Dad and Carson came back into the curtained-off area…and as Carson sat down gingerly on his daughter's bed, Nancy broke down crying again.

Looking uncomfortable, Dad gently pushed Frank back to Joe's side and drew the curtain closed. "We all heard Rathbone," Dad said. "Who was that guy with Kris? I've seen him around that place."

Frank glanced at his brother. "He's…ah…one of the security guards."

"He was thanking me for saving his kids," Joe rasped. "They were at the dentist — he'd gone for coffee when all that broke loose. I just happened to find them." Joe fell silent. "Frank, I really have to…I mean…"

"Bathroom?" Frank said, and Joe nodded. "Where's your crutch?"

Joe rolled his eyes. "Wooden crutch, big fire, and you ask where it went."

"You're both a bit out of it," Dad said. "Frank, you should get back to your bed."

Frank shook his head. "I'm fine, Dad. Bathroom's over on my side, anyway. C'mon, Joe." Frank helped his brother stagger over to the other side — Kris waited just inside the curtains partitioning his area.

Pausing, Frank glanced around. Hammond hadn't come in to Nancy's area, but he wasn't anywhere that Frank could see.

"All this wonderful medical technology," Joe muttered, as Frank closed the curtains behind them, "and they can't invent a gown that stays closed in back."

"I've got my eyes closed, big brother," Kris said.

"You're all heart," Joe said.

"Well, my eyes are open, and it's no treat, believe me," Downs drawled. "Now — you, _sit."_ Scowling, Downs looked Joe over. "You're in no shape for this. But we've got no choice. We have to do this fast, before he convinces everyone to let him go."

"Do _what_ fast? _"_ Frank said, annoyed. This had something to do with Rathbone, but for once, Frank wanted an explanation straight out.

"Let me, Harold," Kris said. "Burning Rathbone's Gift out. Shutting him down. Three people have to make the decision, Blades or Council."

"And…what…you need my vote?" Joe said. "Do it. I'll even light the torches."

"It's not that simple," Downs said. "We're not talking some whacko cult leader. We're talking Weldon Rathbone here."

"So he gets to buy his way out of this, too," Frank snarled. "Real nice."

"Frank," Kris overrode him, "look at me. Please."

Their little adopted tagalong _…_ the scared runaway who'd been abused, stalked, and threatened by her original father for years after she'd fled…and who still carried a k-bar at all times, just in case…

Kris's gaze held him. "You _really_ think I'd let that son of a bitch walk?"

Frank looked away.

"We've now got what we call a SNAFU," Downs said. "Problem with burning out — it tends to leave behind a bad case of lobotomization."

"And Rathbone's just been seen walking and talking normally," Joe said. "Especially by one Harry Hammond."

"I'm in shock," Downs said. "The newbs show signs of actual brains. There's more, and we could argue this into ethical spaghetti, but we don't have time. It's just us three —"

"Four," Frank said.

" _Three,"_ Downs said. _"You_ are not part of this. You're too partisan."

"And I'm not?" Joe said.

Downs looked at both brothers for a long moment. "Assume the same situation. But if Rathbone had no clue he was Gifted and was using it without realizing what he was doing…would you still be saying, 'yeah, let's turn him into a vegetable', on top of whatever the courts do to him?"

" _Yes,"_ Frank snarled…but Joe hesitated.

"Take it further," Downs said. "The man's more than a few crayons short of a full box. He _believes_ Nancy really is his wife. _That doesn't excuse his actions._ But the law allows for _not guilty by reason of insanity._ Maybe…if he could be cured, he could truly regret what he's done, maybe even make amends. You still want to destroy his brain?"

Joe still hadn't spoken.

Now Frank was seething, and he turned on Kris. "If it was your original father out there, you wouldn't be debating ethics like this."

"I wouldn't be allowed to decide," Kris said.

"Most of Bay Area wouldn't," Downs said. "Including me. We'd have to bring in L.A. folks to make that decision."

"It's not an easy decision, big brother," Kris said. "It never is."

"Now…I can tell you Rathbone knows about his Gift and was using it willingly and knowingly against Nancy, and you, and us," Downs said. "So that leaves out that particular tangle."

"I confirm that," Kris said. "It wasn't accidental."

"But the insane part doesn't come into play, either," Joe said slowly, finally. "He was still _knowingly_ misusing his Gift and using it to intentionally hurt someone. Just because he thought Nancy was Greata…" Joe shook his head. "Doesn't matter. The action and intent are the same, no matter who he thought the victim was."

Silence.

Downs nodded, slowly. "Okay, then. You, though, are ten miles past exhausted, Hardy. You're only going to observe and be our _just-in-case._ Hawk and I should be able to hold him and get it done without your help."

Tag? Frank looked at her, but Kris wouldn't meet his gaze.

"The real problem is that _someone_ 's going to realize we're behind it." Downs sighed. "Can't be helped. Hawk, put the mouse-trick over you and Joe, if you can. I can manage mine."

"Me, too," Frank said, as he helped Joe to stand, then glared at Downs. "I want to watch. I want to be able to tell Nancy myself that he won't hurt her again."

Downs only shrugged.

No one noticed as they headed for Rathbone's partition and slipped through the curtains…but then Frank and Joe both pulled up short, nearly running into Kris, who'd frozen next to Downs. All of them stared at Rathbone.

Rathbone…who lay on his bed with the oxygen mask over his face, eyes wide open and staring…

…dead.


	32. The Secret Agent

_A/N: So we're at the end of another one! Thanks to DuffyBarkley, Barb, "Guest Who Turned Out to Be DB In Disguise", Katie Janeway, Caranath, Wendylouwho10, Xenitha, Arivoctix, & Itarille Celebrindal for the reviews, comments, & favorites - and thanks to all the reviewers, commenters, favoriters, followers & readers for sticking around! GWTOTBDBID: Stacey Blaine is the psychic girl from the episode "House on Possessed Hill"; I did a re-take on that one, too. ;)_

 _(Edit: thank you, thank you, everyone. This is my first tale to crack 200 reviews - I'm just...wow. Thank you. Everyone who's asked: yes, the series is continuing! The full list of planned tales is on my profile.)_

 _Coming up in the next couple weeks: "Soul Survivor"...yes, **that** episode. And the misspelling of the title is very, very intentional. MUAHAHHAAAAA..._

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Frank slumped against the wall, once he got through the door to Kris's hallway. Things had gotten complicated, past any point he would ever had expected. Dad and Carson were still in Frank and Joe's rooms (Joe having locked the lab and explained it as "storage" when Dad asked), though they were going to fly back to the East Coast tomorrow. Frank hadn't wanted to impose on anyone else in the Center, and sharing his room with Dad was not something Frank wanted to do, at all.

Carson had apologized to both brothers, but matters were still tense and wary. Carson and Dad weren't sure what had happened, and Frank and Joe had deliberately kept quiet on everything except the bare-bones, mundane truth.

Hammond hadn't returned to the Center. As far as Frank could tell, Hammond hadn't even spoken to Dad or Carson since the fire. Frank wasn't sure whether to be happy or worried over that.

And Rathbone was dead.

Dead by magic, a signature that Kris hadn't recognized, that Joe said didn't match the doll and wasn't Gina Delquist's. Which left only one other suspect, to Frank's mind: Hammond.

It made no sense. _It made absolutely no sense._

Nancy had accepted Kris's offer to come back and stay in the Center, in Kris's spare room. Joe had been sharing Jamie's rooms downstairs for the duration; Frank had taken over Mar's guest room. Not that Frank minded. Nancy needed privacy, and the only time anyone in the Center intruded on that was a simple knock on her door with "There's food out here, if you want it" at mealtimes. The Center's counselor, Becca, had visited to offer help — Frank didn't know if Nancy had accepted, but deliberately chose to not find out.

More than once, he'd found Nancy and Kris talking in low tones, and Frank would quietly leave the room. He offered Nancy his shoulder, his support, his comfort, but wouldn't take it one millimeter beyond what Nancy was willing to share.

Nancy's business. Her privacy. That ended the matter.

The door to the spare room was open; a quick glance told Frank that Nancy wasn't in. Likely out walking — with everything now in full flower, the roads around Yerba Buena were peaceful and filled with birdsong.

Several high-pitched squeaks made Frank sigh, though the sigh was laced with a smile. Time to check the kittens and give Moggie her dose of antibiotics.

"Tag?" Frank stopped at the door to Kris's rooms. "I'm just here to check the fur-balls."

"She's not here." Nancy's voice, from back in Tag's sleeping area.

Frank went in, but stopped at the archway. Mama-cat Moggie was curled up on the warmth of Kris's waterbed. Dressed in jeans and a sweater, Nancy sat on the floor, dragging a feather-toy around for the kittens to chase. One, the smoky gray, was curled in her lap, asleep; the others tumbled all over themselves to grab the feathers.

"She said I could watch the kittens," Nancy said.

Frank smiled. Half the Center used that excuse.

Nancy stroked the gray; the kitten kneaded at her legs, wiggled to another position, then went back to sleep. "They'll be weaned in a couple weeks. I was thinking…if it's okay, I mean…about staying until then. So I can take this one home."

"Downs'll be happy to hear that," Frank said. Rita and Emelio had wheedled, cajoled, and _pleeeeeeeeaaaase'_ d until Downs caved in and agreed to adopt any kittens that Kris couldn't find homes for. Frank sat and picked up a length of ribbon, tapping the tuxedo kitten on the nose when it got too ferocious in its antics. Then, quieter, keeping his gaze focused on the squeaking kittens, "I'd like that, too."

"What, the kitten?" Nancy said, with a sly smile. "Or me staying?"

"Since me and Joe are adopting this one," Frank scooped up the tuxedo and tapped its nose again; it grabbed his finger and gnawed, "you tell me."

"I thought you were just visiting here."

"Sort of. We start SFSU in the fall, so we'll be here a while."

Nancy fell silent a moment. "You never did tell me everything. You still owe me that explanation, Frank Hardy. _And_ dinner."

Kidnapped, two broken toes, and…other…nearly killed in a fire, and still every inch a detective. Frank was glad that hadn't changed. "Let me get the meds into Moggie and I'll be happy to take you out to Burn The Tail." Frank hesitated. "If you're up for it, I mean."

Nancy only gave him a _look._

Definitely hadn't changed. "Just checking."

"Big brother?"

Frank sighed. Kris was worse than Joe when it came to bad timing. "Yeah. Nancy's here, too, Tag."

"I knew _that."_ Kris came through the archway, sat on the bed and scritched Moggie's ears as she picked up books from the floor and bed and shoved them into her bookbag; she looked exhausted. "Good god…I really, really hate Council. Especially when Joe starts up."

"Joe?" Frank said, confused.

"All about Gina. You missed the news, big brother."

"I take it you want me to leave," Nancy said dryly.

Kris handed Nancy a notebook and pen. "Nah. Just write down any questions and spring 'em on Frank. So I'm not here all day with explanations that you intelligent detective-types don't understand."

"Tag…"

"Anyway," Kris went on, "they're still talking to Gina downstairs, deciding what to do. It's a huge tangle. She didn't want anyone to get hurt — she just wanted to bring Rathbone down." Kris sighed, ran a hand through her hair. "The fire alarms and sprinklers not working? Matt found out that Rathbone's people were paying off the building inspectors."

"There's a decade or two of wrongful death lawsuits right there," Nancy said grimly. "Right along with negligent homicide."

"It doesn't let Gina off the hook," Frank said. "She set the fires."

"I know _that._ " Nancy gave Frank one of those _I'm-not-an-idiot_ looks. "But people will want to sue the rich corporation, not a broke, pathetic-looking girl."

Kris nodded. "It gets worse. Gina claims Rathbone killed her mother."

" _What?"_

"Best we can tell, Gina's telling the truth. It's what she believes she saw, anyway. She managed to run away when she was thirteen."

"Which means Gina…" Frank stopped. He knew how that story went. Abuse never stopped. The cycle always continued, unless someone intervened.

"Yeah. That, too." Kris looked away. "But…that's why Joe's up in arms. He's decided he's on her side in this. We'll probably be listening to him ranting for the next week."

Frank was used to Joe's _right-the-injustice_ crusades. Most times, Frank agreed with him. But this… "You don't sound like you're on her side."

"I didn't set fires and get people killed to get back at my parents." Kris slung her backpack over her shoulder. "I've got afternoon class. Oh, and _Shimá_ got turkey lunchmeat, if you wanna try giving Moggie the meds on that."

"Good idea," Frank said, standing up to stretch. Best to get that out of the way, so he and Nancy could have that long chat. "I'll walk out with you, Tag."

"Oh no, you don't." Nancy set the gray kitten on the waterbed next to Moggie and stood herself. "You're not getting out of explaining again, Frank Hardy."

"I'm not," Frank said, as they followed Kris out. "I'm just going to the kitchen to try Tag's suggestion."

"Oh, _really?"_

"Could you two _please_ keep the lovey-dovey stuff _out_ of my room?"

"Lovey-dovey? With _him?"_

"You _did_ get really loud about expressing your true feelings towards me a few days ago," Frank said. "Half the Center heard you."

" _Frank Hardy…"_

"Look, there's plenty of room over there." Kris jerked her thumb towards the spare room. "That's why I cleared that room out, after all."

"Me and Joe cleared the room out, you mean," Frank said, grinning in spite of himself…but then something caught his eye. Something metallic on Kris's floor, against the floorboard behind the portable fridge. He picked it up…and went cold all over.

"Are they flirting again, Tag?" Joe had come in the hall door and limped back; his hair had been trimmed to remove the scorching, but he'd sworn not to cut it until it'd grown back out. Given what Emelio and Rita had said about the fire, Joe was lucky he hadn't been burnt bald. "Frank, me and Jamie are going to Burn the Tail, if you and Nancy want to join us."

"Gladly," Nancy said sweetly, "since I believe _someone_ owes me for baby octopus."

"Look, if all three of you are going to start, could you move out of the hallway?" Kris said plaintively. "I really have to get to class."

"Tag, you better look at this." Frank held the metal up.

"What…" Kris started, then shut up when Frank held a finger to his mouth.

An electronic bug.

Frank met his brother's gaze, then passed it to Joe without a word. Joe dropped the bug to the ground, placed his crutch on it, and bore down with a solid crunch, reducing the bug to metal splinters and an ugly scratch in the wood floor.

"It was on the floor, right behind your fridge," Frank said.

"But why?" Kris looked totally bewildered. "That makes no sense. Who'd want to bug my — _oh."_

" _Hammond,"_ Joe growled. "You said he was provoking your wards, Tag. There's your reason. He was trying to draw our attention so we didn't see what he was really doing."

"But he couldn't have," Kris said. "I was looking right at him. He didn't do anything like that — both his hands were empty."

"That you saw," Frank said. "There were two other people in the room with him, Tag." He wasn't going to look at Nancy. He was not.

"And Dad worked with military intelligence," Joe said, looking sick. "Frank…Dad wouldn't. He couldn't have."

"He had plenty of access back here, Joe. Mar and Tag didn't bar him from being back here to see us, remember." Frank didn't want to believe it, either.

But Hammond was Dad's FBI contact. Hammond had visited the Hardys' home a lot before Frank and Joe had come out here. Hammond, who'd tried to get Frank and Joe to spy for him…who'd tried to feel out their level of recruitment by the Association.

…and Dad had the skill, the opportunity…

"But right behind the mini-fridge?" Joe said. "Dad's not that clumsy. You wouldn't have found it so easy if he'd done that."

"He might not have had chance for much else," Frank said. "And if they suspected us of being involved with Nancy's kidnapping…"

"You've been very carefully not saying _three_ people," Nancy said quietly. "I've been back here, too." She looked away. "You were right, Frank. Hammond…did talk to me before I came out here."

"It wasn't you. I know that." Frank wasn't going to look at Kris, either. He didn't need any kind of confirmation, psychic or otherwise. "You're a lot of things, Drew, but a sneaky underhanded spy, you're not."

That earned him a _look._ "You make such a great character witness."

Now Frank smiled, remembering. "Well, with some characters, it's a bit more difficult."

"Go on to class, Tag," Joe said to Kris. "They'll be at this a while. I'll scour your rooms for more of those things. You can help when you get back."

"While you're at it, brother, you can give Moggie her medicine." Frank shifted his stance in such a way to suggest that, despite not having a towel nor being near an immediate source of water, a rat-tail would be inevitable and unavoidable if Joe didn't agree. "Nancy and I are already late for lunch."

"I'm gone," Kris said and scooted out the hall door.

"There's lunch meat in the fridge for Moggie," Frank said to Joe, then took Nancy's arm and led her out. "Have fun with the kittens."

"Worm," Joe growled, but the hall door closed on anything after that.

"You two make me glad I'm an only child," Nancy said to Frank.

"It has its moments."

"I'd like to have a moment." Nancy was in front of him, looking up into his face. Uncertain…but determined. "I never did thank you."

"You don't have to," Frank said quietly.

"I want to," Nancy said…then leaned in and kissed him.

The moment was still too short…but even sweeter. Frank tried to hold himself in check, but he didn't want to… _God_ , he wanted to…to…

Then Nancy pulled away, smiling, and headed out the archway towards the commons. Over her shoulder, "But you're still paying for lunch, Hardy. With extra wiggly tentacle parts."

Frank stood there a long moment, catching his breath…then, slowly, started to smile again.

And followed.


End file.
